


To Carry Me Home

by shadowscribe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Baking, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Sex, Dancing and Singing, Depression, Drama, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lovers to Friends, Modern Girl in Thedas, Not a self insert, POV First Person, Pansexual Character, Reader involvement, Romance, Stress Baking, Work In Progress, all the Dragon Age spoilers, all the cameos, all the headcanons, all the references, choose your own adventure (kind of), i dont know what i'm doing, irregular updates, possible ooc, seriously making this up as we go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-01 18:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 109,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11491833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowscribe/pseuds/shadowscribe
Summary: A Modern Girl in Thedas where said modern girl knows nothing of Thedas and isn't the Inquisitor. She just likes to make food and sing too loud.Apparently that's going to save the world, or at least everyone in it.





	1. Falling Through the Cracks

“Well, that could have been worse.”

I snort unattractively and spare a glance for the woman sitting in the passenger seat next to me. Mama B has her huge bohemian bag clutched in her lap – the new Coach piece Stephen got her for Christmas is currently rattling around carelessly in the backseat, where it will likely stay until she puts the thing up on ebay – and is staring out into the darkness with pursed lips. “Of _course_ , it could have been worse,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Uncle Stephen might have actually called me a whore instead of implying it.”

“Stephen’s a whiny little bitch who needs to get laid,” Mama B retorts. “Preferably _after_ he comes out of his tiny, uptight closet.”

“ _Beatrice_!” I gasp as I splay a hand across my chest in horror. “ _Little ears_!”

We stare at each other in the dim glow of the streetlight for a moment, the interior of the car silent except for the soft sounds of Bing Crosby crooning in the background. Mama B breaks first, lines cracking the skin around her mouth and eyes as she chuckles.  I join in, laughing until I am hunched over the steering will, tears streaming down my face. Jesus Christ on a cracker, you’d think _I_ was the one that had been knocking back egg nog like it was going out of style.

“Oh, I needed that,” I mutter as the sounds of our mirth finally began to peter out. I also need a good stiff drink or three and at least a half dozen of the cookies that I know are still sitting on the counter at home. But beggars can’t be choosers and all that shit. Plus, it is fucking nice to not feel like I am suffocating on all the pretentious, judgmental, familial propriety that has inevitably followed us out of the house in addition to Aunt Carol’s cloying perfume.

Dear god, why, again, do I bother to attend these family functions?

“Your Carol imitation has gotten quite good,” Mama B offers after a moment.

I smile wickedly and stare out the windshield, the _whip whip whip_ of the windshield wipers doing a piss poor job of clearing my line of sight. “I know,” I smirk.  “Madie and little Stephen think it’s _hilarious_.”

 I smile at the thought of my cousins. Madie is ten and already smarter than I’ll ever be. She’d spent half the evening chatting my ear off about math club and dance lessons and asking if I could teach her how to make fudge. Stephen is six and a little Mycroft Holmes – the Mark Gatkiss version, not the Stephen Fry. He’s a sarcastic, snide little shit who – upon occasion – is utterly adorable.

… And there’s the reason. Bloody cute children.  I sigh.

“Did Stephen really call you a whore?”

I swallow. “I believe the words he actually used were _‘a woman of loose morals’_ ,” I drawl airily as I tap at the steering wheel. What he’d actually said – after politely, or politely as far as Stephen is concerned, asking after my job – was _Well, at least as a waitress a woman of loose morals can put her skills to good use._

Or something like that. I’m trying not to think about it. It’s kind of the default when dealing with Uncle Stephen and Aunt Carol – take a deep breath and try to not punch them in the face.

“Fucking idiot. I’ve half a mind to go back and…” she trails off with a swift shake of her head as I finally pull out of the ritzy, tastefully decorated neighborhood. “I’m sorry,” she adds after we’ve driven a mile or two, nothing but the strains of some newer rendition of _Let It Snow_ drifting through the heated car. Someone at the radio station is optimistic – or at the very least is trying to will the rain pounding at my windshield to turn into fat, fluffy flakes.

It isn’t going to happen, not this far south. Don’t blame them for trying, though.

Fuck, but I miss snow.

“You don’t have to stay,” Mama B continues softly. “You can go back to New York.”

I shake my head. “And leave you to the sharks? No fucking way.”

“I’m serious, Avery. I’ve been cancer free for six months now. I really appreciate… “ Mama B sighs heavily. “No. I’ve _loved_ having you back home for this past year and a half but you shouldn’t give up your whole life for me.”

I quirked an eyebrow and gave her some mad side eye as I drove. “You gave up yours for me,” I finally say, my voice uncomfortably thick. It is true, or true enough.

 Mama B had been single, carefree, globetrotting, a mere twenty-four, and at least a dozen other things when she’d waltzed into my life fifteen years ago. She is my aunt, technically. My mother’s youngest sister. She’d adopted me when I was eleven and it had been the best damn day of my life.

“None of that!” she scolds. “I did exactly as I pleased, same as any other damn day of the year. But you, Av…”

“I want to be here. With you.” Ignoring the fact that it’s acting like a hurricane outside my windows, I take one hand off the steering wheel and reach across to grab her hand, squeezing it gently.

“But you hate it here.”

I shrug. “Eh. I hated New York too. My entire apartment was smaller than Carol’s closet and every time I stepped out the door I was immediately surrounded by eight million of my closest friends. It was _fantastic_.” My skin crawls just thinking about it, honestly. It’s not that I don’t like people… I just don’t like _people_. Everywhere. With no way to escape from them.  Ugh. I shake my head and navigate around the small river that’s forming at the edge of the road. “New York isn’t the only place with a culinary school. Or restaurants. Or friends. Or possible dates. I’ll be fine.”

Mama B eyes me suspiciously. She doesn’t believe me. Can’t say I blame her, of course. I’d hightailed it out of here at nineteen like I had the devil himself breathing down my neck. Hadn’t really been back much after that either. Not until Mama B had called to say that she’d found a lump and it was probably _nothing_ … By the time she’d had her test results I’d packed up my belongings and found someone to sublet for the rest of my lease.

Thankfully she decides – likely in wake of her brother’s insensitive comments and her sister-in-law’s constant badgering that I either dressed too much like a slut or that I needed to make more of an effort or I’d _never_ keep a man – that now is not the time to press me about my future plans. A fact for which I am immensely grateful because, despite the words that have just spilled out of my mouth, I haven’t really thought about… anything. I go to work. I sleep. In the times in between I occasionally go out for drinks or something with friends but mostly I bum around at home in leggings and too large tee shirts with Netflix or Pandora for company.

Fabulous. I’m twenty-six years old and I have less of a handle on my life than I did at fifteen.

I sigh.

“You’ll find your home eventually, Av,” Mama B finally whispers.

“I’ve already got a home. I’ve got you!”

Her eyes, a soft blue that I’d envied for a good portion of my life, stare at me through the darkness until I can’t bear to look at her anymore.

The silence is awkward again, yawning between us like a living thing that needs to be poked and prodded. I open my mouth several times only to close it again. I want to explain it to her, I want to word vomit all of the thoughts that go round and round in my head but it’s a bit ridiculous to expect her to understand when I don’t even understand whatever it is myself.  And, frankly, I’m too damn tired to try right now. All I want is leggings, a hoody, a good stiff drink, and the damn plate of Christmas cookies sitting on the counter. In that order.

 Also, claymation Rudolph and no lights on but the Christmas tree.

“Do you think they’re replaying Rudolph or am I going to have to dig through the dvd cabinet?” Mama asks, apparently reading my mind.

I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my lips, “Bitch, please, that’s why we have a DVR,” I smirk at her in the darkness, steadfastly ignoring the hot prick of tears – _I will not cry, damn it_ – at the corner of my eyes.

“And cookies?”

I laugh, high and a little giddy. “And cookies,” I agree.

That’s the thing with Mama B. She knows that sometimes the heavy stuff just needs to wait until later. And that ninety percent of life’s problems can be solved with cookies.

Or something like that.

 

* * *

 

My head is killing me. I blink slowly, the ache in my skull creeping down the back of my neck and radiating out from there like some mallet wielding octopus.

_Mallet wielding octopus?_ I repeat back to myself. _Really? That’s the best you can do_?

Son of bitch, forget the awful simile already. Why the fuck was my head pounding? This isn’t simply a my-aunt-and-uncle-are-complete-and-total-assholes sort of thing. No, this is the sort of thing that calls for a whole damned bottle of ibuprofen and copious amounts of coffee.  I groan and blink again, struggling with the mountain that seems to be weighing down my eyelids.

It takes a minute for my eyes to focus on what is around me, another minute before it even begins to register. Everything is… weird. Like I’ve suddenly found myself living inside a sepia photo, everything around me a wash of watery yellows and browns. I stare at the steering wheel in front of me, my eyes tracing the familiar tan curve of it before moving to the windshield, following the jagged cracks until they abruptly broke into sharp nothingness.

I blink and stare unseeing at the brown, dusty landscape for several moments before two realizations crash into my head with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. The first of which is that I no longer possess a windshield. It’s shot a dozen ways to hell. The second, and perhaps more important, is that I’m hanging upside down, the dark weight of my hair pulling at my scalp while the seatbelt digs uncomfortably into my shoulder.

“ _Shit_ ,” I breathe out. How did this happen? I mean seriously, _how_? Last I remembered I… I’d been in the car. Driving. It had been dark and raining like I needed to build a fucking ark. Nat King Cole had been crooning in the background. My favorite song. I’d been singing. Mama B had too…

My heart stops in my chest. Mama B.

And just like that the ache in my neck isn’t so debilitating anymore, certainly not enough to keep me from whipping my head to the side fast enough that length of my hair momentarily blinds me.

“ _Shit_ ,” I whisper again as I stare at the empty seat next to me. Empty. With a dangling seat belt that looks like it’s been used by a pack of wolves to play tug-of-war, a shattered windshield, and absolutely nothing to indicate that the woman who’d raised me had been sitting in the passenger seat when… whatever happened, happened. Not even her purse. “Mom?” I call hoarsely as I fumble for the release on the belt. “Mama B?”

Nothing.

I wiggled out of the broken windshield, hissing as one of the jagged teeth of glass caught at the meat of my calf. “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” I swear under my breath as I crawl away from the car. The ground is odd beneath my hands and knees, powdery and insubstantial.  Everything is powdery and insubstantial. “Mama?” I call again as I force myself to my feet, the stilettos of my heels sinking a little as I stagger forward a step. “Mom? Where are you?”

The air around me is so still I choke on it.

Blinking fiercely against the tears stinging at the corners of my eyes I look at the landscape around me. “I’m dreaming,” I say out loud. “I have to be dreaming.” Because there sure as fuck isn’t anything even close to home that looks like this. Everything is yellow and brown with the occasional splash of orange and drenched in an odd, indirect light that – in contrast to the colors surrounding me – has a pearlescent green cast to it.  And barren. Absolutely barren. There’s nothing green or living anywhere. Nothing but stalagmites – stalactites? whichever one comes up from the friggen ground -  and twisting rock arches as far as I can see.

Taking a deep breath I walk unsteadily around the wreck of my car. “Just a dream,” I announce to the stillness around me when I find no signs of Mama B on the outside of the car either. “This is just a dream.” Though why I’d dream of _this_ … “Or a coma,” I amend after a moment of thought and my heart drops to the bottom of my stomach.

I spin slowly on the spot.  “Mama?” I call again, unable to stop myself.

~ _There is no mama here.~_

I let out a little scream, whipping around so quickly that I stumble, nearly falling to my knees in my haste to face… “Dear god,” I whisper, an odd mixture of bile and gingerbread burning at the back of my throat.

~ _There is no god here. You are alone. ~_

Grinding my teeth together I force the contents of my stomach back down as I take a step backwards, unable to take my eyes off the thing in front of me – some unholy union of a dementer and Davy fucking Jones, with a pitted face and sharp angular features obscured by tattered remains of cloth.

It takes a step towards me in response.

_~Alone, as always Avery. You will always be alone.~_

“No,” I whisper, unable to stop myself.

_~Your own mother didn’t want you. Why should anyone else? You should just lay down now. Just save everyone the trouble and…_ ~

“No!”

Turning, I tuck tail and run.

Whatever it is laughs behind me, the sound of its voice clingy like oil to the inside of my skull.

It doesn’t follow.

 

* * *

 

I’m not sure how long I run. It’s surprisingly much easier than I expected, the heels of my shoes perpetually sinking enough into the powdery ground beneath me enough to rend the experience doable if still not exactly comfortable.  _Only you_ _would somehow end up running from monsters in four inch heels and a cocktail dress like it’s some goddamn horror movie,_ I huff silently. I pause and duck behind an outcropping that looks vaguely like a duck and stand there a moment, forcing myself to count to ten before I turn and peek behind me.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Not even footprints.

Shit.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Alright then. Buckle up buttercup,” I tell myself. “It’s time to boldly go.”

I peel myself off the rock before I can second guess myself and, picking a direction at random, I start walking.

 

* * *

 

A flash of purple up ahead makes my heart jump into my throat. Could it be…? She’d been in her little black dress but her bag, the great monstrosity of a bag that Carol is forever trying to replace, is a study in purples and blues. I dart after it, slipping through a narrow opening in the rocks and…

I blink.

“…Av, honey, you want to shut the door? You’re letting the warm air out.”

I blink and let the door close behind me with a gentle _thump._ Mama B smiles, her blue eyes rolling in amusement. “Stop staring, I promise, it’s just dinner. You’ll still have plenty of time to meet up with John afterwards.”

“Bea? Avery? Is that you?” Carol’s voice floats out from the kitchen.

“We’re here!” Mama B shouts back.

I blink. The entryway in front of me stays put, thick ropes of greenery still raped around the bannister of the curved staircase, the reflections of the multi-colored Christmas lights twinkling up at me from the dark, polished floors. “Uh…”

“AVERY!!!”

I nearly fall over as a small body slams into my knees. “Avery! Avery! Avery!” Stephen Jr’s voice babbles up at me from somewhere around my hip. “You’re here! We can open presents now!”

I stare down at the tawny little head. My mouth is hanging open, I know it. I blink.

A deep rumble of laughter rolls over the room and I look up in time to register that it’s the elder Stephen walking towards me before he’s got his arms around my shoulders giving me a light squeeze. “Not yet, kiddo. We’ve got to eat first. Your mom will skin us alive if we mess up her plans,” he informs his spawn in a lazy drawl as he pulls away. “Good to see you Avery, how’re things at the diner?”

I blink. “Uhhh…”

“Oh, Stephen, give the poor girl a break! Let her at least get in the house and take off her coat before you smother her,” another male voice orders from behind him and Stephen turns enough to give me a sight of a second man standing in the archway that leads to the great room. I don’t recognize him. He’s taller than my uncle, all lean lanky grace in dark wash jeans and a sweater vest that reads _Ho Ho Ho_ over a buttoned up shirt.

“She’s not wearing a coat,” my uncle points out and the mystery man raises an eyebrow.

“No coat? On a night like this? It’s a miracle you didn’t ruin the dress.”

I glance down. “Oh… um… it’s…” I blink.

“Don’t worry, you look fabulous,” the mystery man assures. “And I’m sure it will look very pretty in a pile on John’s floor later.”

“Adam!” my uncle admonishes as he slaps his hands over the sides of his son’s head. “ _Little ears_!”

The mystery man – Adam? – shoves his hands in his pockets and laughs. “Please, like that’s going to traumatize him more than walking in on his fathers.”

My eyes try to bug out of my head.

“Hey, hey Avery?”

I blink.

“Um… yes?”

Stephen Jr stares up with me, his blue eyes wide with curiosity. “Why does papa think your dress would look pretty on the floor?” He takes a moment to eye me critically, a look I am far more used to seeing from his young face. “Wouldn’t it just get all wrinkly?”

Adam hides his laughing in a choking cough as Uncle Stephen’s face turns an interesting shade of red. “Umm…” I blink again. “I think he’s just saying that it would be a pretty dress no matter what…?” I offer after a moment of panicked hesitation.

Apparently that’s good enough for the resident six-year-old because he nods and gives my legs another squeeze before running off. “I’m sorry about that dear,” Adam murmurs when he’s gone, looking absolutely unrepentant. He swoops in and gives me a welcoming hug as I totter further into the foyer.

“No you’re not,” I reply without thinking.

Bastard grins like the damn Cheshire cat.  “No, I’m really not. But that’s why you love me.”

“Avery?” Carol’s slightly demanding call saves me from having to reply to that. Adam grins like he knows what I’m thinking and catches Stephen’s hand in his own, squeezing it with obvious affection.

“Uh… yes?” I move around the two men making googly eyes at each other in time to see my aunt sweep out of the dining room, a lace edged red and white pinafore apron pulled on over her clothes.

“Oh, thank god you’re here! Can you come help me with the potatoes? I’m terrified that I’ll turn them into paste like I did at Thanksgiving. Oh, and Madie is positively _dying_ to show you the pies she made all by herself…” I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot so I follow Carol into the kitchen, a blaze of light and lighthearted giggles greeting me as Nat King Cole sings from the ipad set on the counter. It’s beautiful.

I blink.

“This isn’t right,” I whisper as I stare at my family. “This isn’t…”

~ _Don’t say it. You don’t want to draw her attention_.~

At first glance I see it as a small child with a pilfered sugar cookie clutched in its fist. He’s a gorgeous, round cheeked little boy of about three years of age and until I blink he’s the spitting image of Adam. But I do blink and the edges of the child blur and instead of a child it is a figure of glowing light, floating there in the kitchen that isn’t right.

“What?”

“…Avery, can you…” Mama B’s voice trails off as she stops in front of me, her mouth snapping shut into a thin lipped snarl. ~ **What are you doing, little wisp? You are not welcome here**.~

“Mama…” I begin hesitantly, my voice trailing into silence because the longer I stare at Mama B the less she looks like Mama B.

I blink.

“What the fuck?” I breathe because that sure as hell isn’t Mama B. For starters, Mama B never had a rack like that, even before her mastectomy. And if she’s ever worn nipple clamps, well, that’s really something I don’t want to know about. Not that I have a problem with nipple clamps, but there are just some mental images a daughter shouldn’t have of her mom.

Of course, the fact that she’s suddenly sporting purple skin and kind of glowing is pretty convincing in the whole ‘Not Mama B’ argument.

Fuck.

~ **Come on darling, come help make dinner**.~

I take a step back, stumbling a little on the edge of the dining room rug. “You are not my mom,” I whisper as I steady myself with an iron grip on the ornate chair. “And those, _those_ are not my family. I don’t even know who the fuck _he_ is!” I point unerringly to the shadow of Adam standing behind me.

~ **I can be, though. I can be all of this. Your family, as they’re supposed to be. A family that loves you and supports you, that supports each other. A place in the world. The diner that you’ve dreamed up in the corners of your heart. A lovely young man that adores you.** ~ The purple skinned creature holds out her hand and offers me a smile.  ~ **Come on, love. Just take my hand and you’ll have everything you desire**.~

I take another step back. “You know, it’s a nice offer, it really is, but I’ll just…” I motion at the door. “This isn’t… it wouldn’t be…” I shake my head.

“Avery! Look at what I made! I even did the fancy leaves on top like you taught me!” Across the glittery, dish covered expanse of the kitchen island Madie tilts an apple pie towards me to show the decorative cuts of pastry dough she’d used to form a misshapen, but still identifiable, sprig of holly.

My heart twists painfully inside my chest and I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “It’s no right. This isn’t…” I shut my eyes. “There’s no place like home,” I mutter with a choking laugh. “Just a dream, Avery. This is just a dream. Just a…”

I don’t know which is brighter, the scream or the flash of light against my eyelids.

 

* * *

 

I blink.

The strange, desolate landscape doesn’t budge.

Slowly, I turn in place and find that once again I am utterly alone.

 

* * *

 

It’s the fact that it’s a different color that catches my attention. “Because that worked out so well for you last time,” I mutter as I peer around the stalactite – stalagmite? Who the fuck thought to name them practically the same thing? – at the weird twist of green light hanging in the air. It looks exactly like some weird piece of modern art that you’d expect to see hanging in an disgustedly expensive building that is nothing but uncomfortable angles of metal and glass and ceilings so high that you get a little dizzy when you look. “Just walk away,” I tell myself. “Just turn around and walk away.”

I don’t move.

It’s oddly compelling, the weird little twist of frozen green light. There’s something about it that is almost irresistible and like a moth to a flame I find myself emerging from behind the safety of my stupid rock and walking out towards it. It’s just as odd and compelling up close. Cautiously I circle it, my heels sinking trackless into the dusty earth.

_“…will likely attract attention from the other side.”_

I freeze for a moment as the voice, unmistakably male, sweeps over me. It is disjointed and distant but… I spin in place, searching the landscape around me.

Nothing.

Of course.

“So now you’re hearing things. Fucking fantastic.” I scrub a hand down my face and sigh.

_“That means demons!”_   This time the voice is female and… decisive and authoritative. Like a fucking drill sergeant. It makes it easier to track _“Stand ready!”_

I stare at the weird piece of light, my breath constricting oddly in my chest. “This is a really bad idea,” I mutter but you know what they say: as long as you _know_ it’s a bad idea… Oh, god. Hesitantly, I reach out and brush my fingers against it. “Shit!” I hiss and try to yank my hand away as a coil of lightning races up my arm but I can’t. I can’t move, the weird, twitching contractions of my muscles holding me to the art piece as it explodes in my hand like a fistful of illegal fireworks.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit on a fucking stick.

I yank at my arm desperately, trying to scramble away but my feet don’t move and I stumble, falling off balance. For a moment I hang oddly in the air, my arm bent at an angle that makes my shoulder scream, and then I’m falling, falling through air that tastes of smoke and heat and…

 “ _Demon coming through_!”


	2. Curiouser and Curiouser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Avery meets a pair of rogues.

I scream as I hit the ground and again as something hits me, propelling me sideways as pain lances up my arm. “Shit!” I howl as I clamp my hand over the curve of my bicep, blood leaking out from beneath my fingers to trail through the dusting of ashes that cling to my skin. “Fuck! What the fuck are you doing?!” I screech as I catch sight of the blood tipped arrow sticking in the ground behind me. “What kind of fuckers are you to just shoot at somebody? And with a goddamn arrow? _What. The. Actual. FUCK!_ ”

“Hold!” The very decisive woman’s voice cuts through my hysteria as I scramble to my feet, nearly twisting my ankle as my heels fail to sink into the ground.  I blink and stare wildly around me. I’m not sure how long I’d been wandering that weird, silent, brown and yellow landscape – it feels like forever – but this place, this place is different. It’s sharp and clear and the sudden cacophony of noise assaulting my eardrums is almost enough to send me back to my knees. Also, it’s cold as balls and I’m pretty sure my legs are about to expire from frostbite.

“Are you a demon?”

I blink. “A _demon_?” I repeat numbly as I refocus my attention on the man standing before me. “A demon? _DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING DEMON TO YOU?!!”_ The grand movement of gesturing at my – very human, thank you very much – body is slightly ruined by the fact that I’ve still got a death grip on my upper arm.

The man takes half a step back and very deliberately draws his eyes down the length of my body. “A desire demon, maybe,” he smirks and lets his gaze blatantly linger on the swell of my breasts where no doubt my nipples are doing their best to punch through my bra and the slinky red material of my dress.

The crack of my hand across the exposed flesh of his cheek sounds like a gunshot and he stumbles. “Oh, you’re _feisty_ ,” he drawls, staring down at me, grinning like a fool despite the perfect, bloodied print of my palm across his face. “I like that.”

“You’re a pig!” I snap back but my lips twitch rebelliously. Damn it.

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Oh, put your sword down. She’s clearly not a demon.” I blink.

“What?”

“Not you,” he jerks his head. “Her.” I look in the direction of his gaze and instantly find myself pinned by the steeliest glare I’ve ever seen. The woman is striking, the bones of her face sharp but elegant. She’s also in what I can only assume is armor with what is _definitely_ a sword clutched in one hand and staring at me like she wants to turn me into a shish kabob. Unconsciously I straighten, my fingers smoothing the wrinkled and ash dusted fabric around my hips.

“She fell out of the Fade!” the woman protests and good god, the voice is as steely as the rest of her.

The man rolls his eyes. “So did I, apparently, but that hasn’t stopped you from...”

Something above my head explodes and the man moves, grabbing my hand and pulling me with him as shards of green rain down around us. I stumble, of course, because apparently the ground here does not have magic heel absorbing abilities and end up plastered to his side.

“Demon!” It’s the steely woman’s voice, the roar of it washing over me and stirring something in me. The urge to stand up to…do something. Fuck if I know what though.

“Oh god,” I whisper as I take in the image rising before my eyes. My hands tighten their grip on him, holding on to him like he’s the last goddamn real thing in the universe.

The man snorts in my ear. “Max, actually.” He corrects with a bitten off laugh but he tightens his hand around mine reassuringly. “Stay here,” he orders, shoving me behind a pile of rubble. I stumble – _again_ – and collapse in a graceless heap. Dear _god_ , I don’t care how good they make my legs look, I’m never wearing heels again. Never ever. 

 In the distance I’m vaguely aware of shouting, of the sound of metal clashing, and the snap of something moving through the air unbearably fast. It’s all faded though, distant and stretched out, as if they’re all being heard from underwater. _Shock, no doubt_ , a part of me muses but the hiss of Max pulling a pair of knives out of their sheaths drowns everything else, even the pounding beat of my own heart hammering away in my chest. He pauses, half turned, and looks back at me. “Try not to die,” he says quietly. “There’s been too much death here already.”

_Don’t die._

As far as plans go, it’s a pretty damn good plan.

I stare down at my fingers, brown and red and sticky with drying blood and clench them to stop the shaking. _Don’t die_ , I repeat to myself as my teeth rattle against each other. It’s a good plan. Brilliant plan, really. Though, can one die in a dream? Am I even dreaming? The… before. The brown and yellow and dusty, unstable earth… _that_ had seemed more like a dream. Quiet and mildly unsteady and locked inside my own head. This, _this_ … I stare at the beads of blood still slowly trickling down my arm and think that Occam’s Razor notwithstanding, _this_ feels entirely too real to be a dream.

Bugger.

But if it’s _not_ a dream then…

“Jesus fucking Christ!” I scream as something explodes out of the ground next to me. Scrambling backwards, headless of the shards of rock and, oh god, is that _bone?_ digging at my hands and snagging the fabric clinging to my ass. My movements take me out from behind the – clearly dubious – safety of my pile of rubble and I freeze as I catch sight of the battle I’d been hiding from. “Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me,” I mutter under my breath as my heart pounds like an overeager jackhammer against my ribs and I rip my gaze away. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to see the hulked out monster with its oddly reptilian appearance. I don’t want to hear the snap of the - lightning? Chains? Whips? – that it’s holding in its hands. I just don’t. Nope. Not today. I’m tapped out.

Right. Because that’ll stop everything.

Oh, god.

“Now!”

I shriek as a volley of arrows suddenly fly overhead and flatten myself against the earth. Down here with my head in the dirt it tastes like dust and ash and…oh, I should really, really just stop thinking about this. “Don’t think,” I mutter as I shut my eyes momentarily so that I don’t have to look at the fine, blackened links of hand bones lying shattered next to my face.

Another scream claws itself from my throat as something wraps around my ankle and I kick out instinctively, shoving and flailing like a fish caught on a line.

Bad analogy, Avery. Bad, bad analogy.

A gratifying shriek of pain pierces my ears and I kick again, ripping my ankle from the grasp of… “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity. _Fuck!”_  Jesus in a speedo, what fresh hell is this, this… wispy, snakey, crustacean _thing_ with its little flailing arms and its creepy long fingers and… “Wake up, Av. Now would be an excellent time to _wake the fuck up_!” I mutter fervently as I shove myself backwards, fingers scrambling for something, _anything_ , to throw at the goddamn monster thrusting its way towards me.

_Please don’t be a skull. Please don’t be a skull. Please don’t be a skull,_ I chant inside my head as my fingers close over something roundish and smooth. With a grunt, I fling it and watch, slightly horrified, as it arcs past the snake-lobster and lands on the ground with a very unsatisfying _thud_. The thing pauses, its dark gaze focusing on the rock – _not_ a skull, thank god – and then looks back at me.

“Right,” I tell it as I scramble for another stone. “I should probably aim.”

“It’s by no means necessary but it certainly helps.”

I scream like a little girl and jump half out of my skin. The fist sized piece of broken rock that I’d just picked up goes flying and hits the thing right between the eyes. Of course. Something clicks rapidly over my head and the smaller monster thing lets out a ghastly wail as it sprouts a half dozen bolts from its vaporous, shell wrapped flesh. It flails in the air before me, arms thrown up above its head as it screams, and then it just disintegrates. _The Last Crusade_ style. All just dry and wispy and…

“…you up.”

I blink and tilt my head backwards. “…what?” I ask, blinking again until the face above me swims into focus.

A roguish smirk spreads across the broad features of the man standing over me and he wiggles the fingers of the hand he’s holding near my face.  “Let’s get you up before you’re eyeball deep in demons again,” he repeats and I grab his hand and let him haul me to my feet. I can’t feel my legs, though whether that’s from the cold or the blood I can see running down them as I bend over I’m really not quite sure.

“Fuck,” I breathe as I brace my hands on my knees.

“Heh. You’ve got a mouth on you don’t you?”

“Fuck you.” I growl without feeling.

He laughs. “Fair enough.” His hand closes around my elbow and tugs me upwards. “Come on then. Hiding only works if the demons don’t know where you are.” I blink and the entire world tilts dangerously as I stumble along beside him, letting him half drag me up the pile of rubble.  “You okay, Red?” he asks as I collapse at his feet, breathing like I’ve just raced in the Kentucky Derby.

“F-fucking p-p-peachy,” I manage to rattle out as I clasp my hands together, desperate to stop the shaking.

“Drink this.” Something appears in my peripheral vision, a small vial clutched between leather clad fingers. It takes me a moment but I manage to take it from him without dropping it. The glass is warm to the touch and it’s veritably empty, with probably less than a teaspoon of cherry red liquid sloshing around in the bottom of it. I eye suspiciously for a moment, every variation of _don’t take candy from strangers_ that I’ve ever heard running through my head. “Drink it, Red,” the man repeats, exasperated.

Fine.

I toss it back like a jello shot and it goes down about as well as paint thinner.

“J-j-jesus!” I sputter breathlessly, tongue flopping around in my mouth like a beached fish, desperately trying to generate enough spit so that I can wash the damn stuff out of my mouth. It’s oily and thick, slicking the inside of my mouth and throat in a thin layer that leaves every breath, every swallow tasting of something rancid and sharp. Oh god, I’m like a cat with a piece of tape stuck on their paw. Except the shit is on my tongue and it won’t _go away_. “W-what… is?” I demanded hoarsely as my eyes started water.

Shit, I can’t even get the words to come out.

The man looks down at me, eyebrow quirked above hazel eyes. “Just a standard healing potion.”

I blink.

A _what_ now?

I may have trouble speaking past the oil slick in my mouth but apparently my face is quite up to doing all my talking for me. Thank god. “Standard healing potion?” he repeats and stares at me like I’m some sort of puzzle. “It won’t save you if you get your chest smashed in but it’s good for blood loss and will keep you from freezing to death.”

Right.

Because the world is suddenly full of magical fairy dust.

Except that after I manage to get a few deep breaths past the shit in my mouth I _do_ feel better. If nothing else I’m no longer seizing, the clenched hands dangling over my knees suddenly, almost painfully still. “Shit,” I breathe. “That’s fucking amazing. Tastes like shit though,” I mutter as I sneak another look at my savior. He’s a solid, broad shouldered, barrel chested sort of fellow with fiery red hair pulled back tightly from his face. His face is pleasant enough with broad features and a nose that’s been broken a time or two buried beneath stubble, scars, smeared ash, and a dusting of fresh scrapes and bruises. And despite all that mess I can see the smile lines that form around his mouth and eyes as he grins down at me.

This is a man that smiles. A lot.

For some reason that makes it a little easier to breathe.

“Eh. If you ever visit Kirkwall I’ll have to treat you to a pint of _The Hanged Man’s_ finest. One mouthful of that piss and …” he makes as slicing sort of noise as he mimes cutting his throat. “Tastebuds, gone.” The look of horror on my face is enough to make him laugh. “Varric Tethras,” he says with a nod and it takes me a moment – because _tastebuds_ , goddamn it, I’d be fucked seven ways to Sunday without them – to realize that he’s telling me his name. “Rogue, storyteller, and occasional rescuer of damsels in distress. And this is Bianca.” He adds and pats the weapon he’s holding in his arms.

I snort.

“You named your…” my mind whirls frantically for a second, “… _crossbow_... Bianca?”

Varric lets out a barking laugh. “Why is that everyone’s response?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Because you’ve…”

A chorus of distinctive shrieks pierce the air and I flinch. “Fuck me, _really_?” I snarl as I scramble backwards, blatantly putting Varric Tethras’ solid form between me and the trio of approaching lobster-snakes. Which are apparently demons too? They’re creepy and gross but significantly less scary than _that_.

I refuse to look over at the looming monstrosity that is entirely too close to comfort.

I also can’t believe that if _these_ are demons that they thought I was one of them. The fuckers. I mean I’m no Jennifer Aniston – any of the Jennifers, really – but I’m still miles better than any of the demons thank you very much.

“…you fight?”

I blink.

“What now?”

Fight? I don’t fight. Oh, sure, I’ve slapped a few people, kneed a few balls but the only time I’ve ever been in an actual knock-down drag out fight had been when I was seven and Sarah Simmons and I went toe to toe over the last swing on the playground. When it comes to fight or flight I tend to come down firmly on the flight side of things. Running and hiding is just so much easier.

Well, at least when I remember to wear shoes _that are actually conducive to_ _running_.

“I can’t take all three of them before they get here, Red.” Varric’s voice is remarkably calm. “In my right boot there’s a knife. Get it out. _Carefully_ ,” he adds hastily as I scramble for the weapon in question. It takes a few tries to get it out, my fingers won’t _close_ damn it, but when I do finally manage I’m faced with a thin little blade not much longer than my hand. It’s sharp, don’t get me wrong, but it’s small.

“What am I supposed to do? Fillet them?” I screech, trying not to hyperventilate. “I’m going to need a chef’s knife, at least, to get through their fucking shells!”

“Their armor is softer than it looks. Just stick ‘em with the pointy end and stay out of the way of their claws.”

Oh. Stick them with the _pointy_ end. Fantastic advice.

Of course it’s better than dying, so I do, in fact, stick them with the pointy end.


	3. Famous Last Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avery continues to have a moderately awful day.

Max is back.

Max with the ridiculous flop of hair that’s streaked in ash and blood. Max, who looks like he’s been thrown to the ground a few times since I last saw him, leaving his nose suspiciously off-center. Max who plops down next to me like we’re having a picnic in the park except for the fact that there’s a fucking gash across his cheek so deep that the edges flap a little when he moves. The inside of it is oddly shiny and pink, like a fresh burn.

 “Oh, good. You’re still alive,” he mutters as he pulls a small vial out from inside his shirt and uncorks it with his teeth. “You look like shit though,” he adds and, with a grimace, swallows half of the vial’s contents. “You should have this.” He shoves the rest of the vial at me.

My hands are shaking again, the hilt of the knife slippery from the blood that’s streaming down my arm again, but the entire length of the blade is covered in some weird, purple-black sludge and the snake demons have gone the way of the dodo. So there’s that.

I am very, very carefully not thinking about the monster roaring and thrashing no more than twenty feet away, with its glowing electric whips and its grating laughter that I feel down the back of my spine like fucking ice water.

Nope. Not thinking about it at all.

“I…” I shake my head and press my lips tightly together. I don’t want it. It’s gross and disgusting and I’m cold and tired – really, really tired – and I just want my hands to stop shaking. I clench my fingers tighter around the hilt of the knife and press my hands between my knees.

All that does is make my knees shake.

Traitors.

“Take the potion, Red,” Varric’s voice is deeper, calmer. It’s nice. The winding _click, click, click_ of him reloading Bianca is oddly soothing. Kind of like a heartbeat.

“You sh-should do audio b-b-books,” I mumble as I try to take a deep breath.

“Whatever you say, Red.”

Max wiggles the vial in front of face, the cherry red liquid swirling inside the glass like a little mini lava lamp.

I blink.

“D-d-don’t w-w-want i-it-t. T-tastes like sh-sh-shit.”

“Tough, sweetheart,” Max mutters.

The stuff tastes just as awful the second time.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I hiss when I finally stop sputtering.

Max gives me a funny little smile and looks down at the hand holding the vial between us. There’s a crack running down one side of the vial from where he knocked it against my teeth as he shoved it into my mouth. It’s also surrounded by a weird, fluorescent green fire.

“Quite a bit, actually,” he murmurs back, one side of his mouth twitching in a pained sort of smile. “I…” Whatever he is about to say is cut off, washed away in peal of laughter that hits me like a bucket of ice water turned over my head. “Time to move,” he says instead, grabbing me by the hand and hauling me out of my newest little hidey hole with absolutely no regard for, well, anything, and I stumble after him like I’m drunk off my ass.

I’m not, mind you, but I’m beginning to regret that I hadn’t taken advantage of Aunt Carol’s eggnog while I had the chance.

Something snaps, high pitched and whining, just over my head and I let out a shriek at the sensation whistling past the back of my neck. 

_Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think_ , I chant silently. I don’t look at the wound on Max’s cheek. I don’t.

“Move a little faster, sweetheart,” Max growls as he drags me out from underneath the crack of blue-white light with a yank that nearly dislocates my arm.

“I’m trying!” I snap back, because _really_? “Let’s put four inch heels on your fucking feet and see how fast you can move!”

Max’s lips twitch. I think. It’s hard to tell really.

The minutes pass in fear induced haze. Gray and blood and the sing of arrows slipping through the air and the clash of weapons against unyielding flesh. There’s shouting, words that can’t be made out over the echo of that horrible laughter ringing in my ears and running down my spine. I’ve no choice but to follow Max as he drags me across the rubble, slipping and stumbling with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. Every time he moves, every time he so much as pauses and the pressure lets up in my shoulder I expect to be shoved down again, tossed behind a rock and told to stay there, to not die.

It’s the most obvious plan. Because holding my hand isn’t doing him any favors. I may have been studiously ignoring the big demon but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that Max is meant to have a knife in each hand and right now he simply _doesn’t_ , which just seems like a really bad plan. Especially since not only did the little knife of Varric’s get left behind in our sudden departure but let’s face it, unless the fucking demon transforms into some sort of vegetable or dead animal there’s not a whole lot I can do to it anyway.

_1 huge ass demon, diced._

I choke on the giggle that bubbles up in my throat.

_Keep it together,_ I chide myself. _You can get hysterical later_.

Something that sounds suspiciously like a dying baby seal manages to squeak out from between my teeth.

_LATER_.

Hysterics later. Survival first.

Survival. Yes. Right.

I look around for a convenient pile of rubble to get thrown behind.

The grip on my hand tightens to the point of pain, his fingers curling through mine in a move that casts some serious doubts on the presence of dubious hiding places in my near future. I can feel the hammer of his heartbeat through his skin, jumping and jacking like a frightened rabbit against the underside of my wrist. Or maybe that’s my own. Max certainly looks a great deal calmer than I feel. God knows I’m about half a second away from a padded room level of hysteria.

I squeeze his hand, the gentle pressure the only comfort I have to give.

Max twists and turns through the fight like a snake, like a dancer, his face set in concentration. “Down!” he orders suddenly, wrenching his hand from my grip and there’s something, a desperate something, in his voice that has me hitting the dirt before the order even registers.

Over my head something snaps and flares, catching with an audible _whoosh_ and I can’t help but look.

Oh god.

Oh god.

_Ohmyfuckinggod._

Above my head Max’s arm is outstretched towards an angry slash of bright green light that, unlike the one I had stumbled upon, does _not_ resemble a delicate piece of modern art. No, this one looks a bit more like an atomic explosion. A very angry atomic explosion connected to his hand by a thick beam of equally angry green light.

It’s terrifying but it’s not what makes my heart literally stop in my chest.

No, that honor goes to the enormous fucking _hole in the sky_.

A literal _hole_.  It’s as if the atmosphere above my head is nothing more than a damp paper towel that someone has gotten a little too vigorous with, leaving a jagged tear in the fabric of reality.

And beyond the hole is nothing – a great gaping maw of pale, swirling green light.

“ _Jesus_ ,” I croak and it’s the first time in nearly twenty years that I’ve meant it as something other than a curse.

The green light above my head twists and snarls, snapping beneath the connection that Max seems to have forced between them. It detonates, violently, beneath the pressure and almost instantly smooths into something softer. Not a piece of art but fog, maybe, or smoke being pulled away by a gentle morning breeze.

“Hit it now!” the woman’s order, though shouted, is all but lost beneath the low cry of pain that hisses from between Max’s teeth as he collapses to his knees. I scramble across the few feet separating us.

“Are you alright?” I ask and very nearly grab his hand away from where he has it cradled against his chest before I can stop myself. But I do and instead my fingers hang hesitantly in the air between us.

“I’ll be fine,” he gets out.

I snort. “You are, quite literally, lying through your fucking teeth,” I mutter and this time I do touch him, soft and hesitant.

“I’ll be fine,” he lies stubbornly, as if I can’t see the vivid green lines beneath his feverish skin. “This one is just… angrier than the others. And I haven’t even closed it yet,” he adds with a shudder as I gently stretch his fingers out from the claw they’ve formed themselves into.

“Closed?” I ask, perking.  “You mean you can…” I motion at the enormous – seriously _enormous_ \-  fucking hole above my head.

I’m very careful to not look at it. I’d like to save my complete psychological break for later, thank you very much.

Max lets out a pained little laugh. “That’s what they tell me.”

The roar from behind us is enough to shake the rubble beneath my knees, a cacophony of broken expectations so strong I can feel it buffering against my skin like physical waves. I waver on my knees, fingers unconsciously gripping at the dirty leather of Max’s front to keep myself from tumbling into his lap. It hurts, Christ, it hurts. I don’t have to look to see that the demon behind us is finally down, the chilling laughter silenced forever. I can feel it in the air, feel the sudden pressure that suddenly descends upon this crater of rubble and bone and blood, as if I – and possibly everything in here – is caught in a massive blood pressure cuff that will not stop squeezing.

“What…the… _fuck_ …” I manage wheeze through the tightness in my chest. Max feels it too. I can see it, the pain of it there in the dark surface of his eyes.

“That’s my cue,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. He gathers my hands in his, pressing them between my palms. “You’ll be fine,” he promises in a soft puff of air against my lips and then he kisses me.

Which, all things considered, isn’t something I’d been aware was on the menu.

Fuck, but he can _kiss_ though. Lips and teeth and tongue that taste of ash and blood and _standard healing potion_. It’s the sort of kiss that sends up fireworks and makes people look away with blushing embarrassment-by-proxy.

And the kiss itself tastes of so much resignation and despair that I can feel the tears running icy hot down my cheeks before he pulls away.

“You’ll be fine,” he repeats firmly and raises his hand.

It’s like someone is stomping on my chest, driving heavy booted heels into my sternum. I scream and the sound is echoed by the man in front of me, his head thrown back and the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp testament to his pain.

I scream and I scream and, fucking Christ, I scream, heedless of the hands grabbing me by the arms and dragging me backwards, leaving Max all alone beneath the weight of green light and glowing fire. I scream until I can’t feel my throat, scream as I watch the fire spark and grow in Max’s hand and race through his veins, bright enough that I can see it pulsing beneath the covering of skin and cloth.

I scream until the booming concussion knocks through me, leaving nothing but ringing silence in its wake.

I drop with all the elegance of a marionette with its strings cut, knees dragging against the ground and shoulders aching as I dangle from the grip of whoever has their hands wrapped around my biceps.  It takes a moment to remember how to breathe and when I do it feels like fire in my lungs.  “Fuck,” I manage to choke out hoarsely and even the single word hurts as it moves through my vocal chords.

Fuck.

My head lolls useless and heavy atop my neck for an embarrassing moment before I manage to convince the muscles in my neck to work like they’re supposed to.

“Easy there, Red,” a vaguely familiar voice drawls in my ear. “Give yourself a minute.”

I take a deep breath. And then another. And then another.

One more and I manage to get my legs back under me but they’re shaking like a bitch so I’m not exactly sure it’s an improvement. Jesus, fuck. I’m never wearing heels again.

Fact, I think I’m going to just crawl into bed and never fucking come out again.

I take a deep breath and blink.

The world swims slowly into focus, a flurry of falling snow and ash in a wash of gold and green light. There are people moving, a dozen figures dance around the edges of my vision and there is one who is painfully, deathly still.

“Max,” I whisper, staring at the body thrown back against the earth. “Max,” I repeat more frantically, squirming against the hands that hold me. “Fuck it, _Max_.”

 “Let her go.” The voice again. Varric’s voice.

I nearly collapse, again, at the sudden loss of support but I stumble forward, throwing myself across the distance. I have to get to him. Need to.

I blink.

He is just as still beneath my hands as he was beneath my gaze, his legs folded unnaturally beneath him, the one hand out flung and fingers still smoking.

“Is he alive?” The barking question makes me jump.

A man kneels across from me, his long fingers steady as they go to the pulse point on Max’s throat. “No,” he says after a moment and there’s something terrible in his voice, a regret so thick that I choke on it.

“Yes,” I counter, my voice nothing more than a croak. The man looks at me, the pale blue-gray of his eyes sharper than any knife I have in my kitchen.

“His heart is not beating.” He says it slowly and I can’t decide if he’s trying to be gentle about it or condescending. Maybe both. He looks the type.

“That doesn’t mean he’s dead!” I snarl and fuck, that might just be the most ridiculous thing to march out of my mouth in a while. But it’s true, so true my teeth ache with it. “I can _feel_ him,” I say after another deep breath. “He’s still in there. He’s…”

Tired, so tired. The tired of someone who knows that there is no way to win but that has to fight anyway. I can still taste him on my tongue and feel his fear like water on my skin. He’s so tired and so faint that he’s barely there, but he _is_ there.

So I do the only thing I can think of.

I slap him across the face.

Again.

Bastard deserves it anyway. If he thinks he can just kiss me like _that_ and then trot off into the fucking sunset he has got another thing coming.

Beneath my hands his chest rises like a balloon, the hiss of his inhalation shocking and sharp and beautiful.

 

* * *

 

They take him.

After a flurry of conversation that sounds like nothing more than buzzing bees or that weird chittering noise that cats make at birds the sharp-eyed man swings Max up into his arms and leaves. Which is impressive, really, because they look like they’re more or less the same size and sharp-eyed guy doesn’t exactly look like the sort of man that can just manhandle people his own size around. In fact, except for the sheer ferocity of his gaze he looks rather like a mild mannered librarian. Apparently he hits the gym.

A lot of people go with them. There are more of them here in this crater than I’d thought and they form around Mr. Sharp and Max and a woman in shifting grays and chainmail in what looks like a fucking honor guard.

They take him and they leave me kneeling there in the rubble and the ash with something that I’m pretty sure is some poor charred bastard’s ribcage shoving into the length of my leg. I don’t look. I don’t want to look. There’s a difference between _pretty sure_ and actually _knowing_ and right now that’s just not a line that I’m prepared to cross.

Oh, god.

I need a nap.

Or to wake up.

Whichever.

“Red. Hey, Red…”

I blink and tilt my head just enough to look up at Varric. “Hmm?”

He tips his head at me. “You’re shaking again.”

I look down at my body with a strange sort of detachment. He’s right, of course. I’m shaking, though shaking seems like too innocent a word for it. “You have any more of that gross stuff?”

“Afraid not.”

Of course.

I sigh.

“Fucking fantastic,” I mutter and sit in the rubble and the falling snow watching the beads of blood inch down my arm and curl around my fingers.

“Here, Red.” Something heavy falls over my shoulders and I blink up at Varric as he wraps his coat around me. It’s soft and warm, so warm that it makes my skin ache, and it smells heavily of smoke, blood, and a faint male muskiness.  It’s Joel Stevenson’s hoody all over again and I’ve still got that fucker at home in dresser, so if Varric thinks he’s getting his coat back anytime soon he’s sorely mistaken.

“Why Red?”

Varric blinks rather owlishly at my question and then stares, pointedly, at my chest. For a minute I think he’s trying to look down the front of my dress but then it dawns on my poor shock addled brain that he’s actually staring _at_ my dress.

“Oh,” I say and he lets out a little chuff of laughter.

“Yes. _Oh_ ,” he repeats with a smile. “I agree it’s not my best work. Give me a bit and I’ll come up with something better.”

It’s promising that he thinks that he’s going to actually _need_ a new name for me. It sticks with the whole _Not Dying_ plan. It’s an excellent plan.

“VARRIC!!!”

I jump. The man beside me does not.

“Over here, Seeker!” He calls back mildly. I blink. “Cassandra Pentaghast,” he clarifies for me as he nods at someone behind me. “She’s a Seeker.”

I blink.

“Suppose that makes you a Beater then, huh?”

Varric stares. “You are a very…”

“ _VARRIC!_ ”

“Maker’s breath, Cassandra, I’m _right here_!” He yells back, arms motioning wildly.

It’s the steely woman from before. Obviously. The woman who thought I was a demon. Or, judging by the look she’s leveling down her nose at me, _still_ thinks I’m a demon.

“Not a demon,” I growl preemptively. Best to nip these things in the bud.

Cassandra Pentaghast’s eyes widen a little. Up close they’re really a lovely shade of brown, like polished walnut, and as striking as the rest of her. She’s also scary as fuck.

The sword she’s holding half leveled at my head doesn’t help.

“No one is saying you are, Red,” Varric soothes and Cassandra lifts an eyebrow at that.

I snort. “Right.” Because clearly, _clearly_ , everybody thinks I’m the embodiment of sunshine and rainbows and unicorn giggles.  

“You came out of the Fade,” Cassandra Pentaghast points out. “Are you a mage?”

I stare at her. A…what now?

“A mage,” she repeats humorlessly. Apparently I’d voiced my thoughts out loud. “A practitioner of magic? Someone who harnesses the power of the Fade?”

I blink.

“Ummm… I don’t think so?” I mean, I’m pretty sure that if I had some kickass magic powers I’d have done a bit more than scream and poke at demons with something only a little larger than a pocket knife.  I stare at the expanse of ground in front of me. Is that why Max had been able to close the fucking hole in the sky? Magic? Is _he_ a mage?

That’d be kind of cool, actually.

Well, as long as you can ignore the demons, I suppose.

I shiver and clutch at Varric’s coat. Nope. Still not thinking about that. Don’t care that it’s dead. Nope, nope, and a big ol’ side of fucking nope.

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise deep in her throat and puts her sword away. “Varric!”

“Still right here, Cass.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes at the man beside me, looking very much like she’d like to bash the smirk right off of his face with her fancy metal gloves. Gauntlets? Is that what they’re called? Fuck if I know. Varric grins back, silently daring her to try it. “You will help the… the…” she presses her lips together in a tight line. “You will help _her_ back to Haven. I have to…” she waves vaguely at the space around us.  “Bring her to the Chantry. Leliana will have questions.”

I snort. That makes two of us.

Though, with my luck, I won’t be getting any answers.

“Alright, Red, time to get up,” Varric says once Cassandra has marched away, calling orders to the people who are still in this demon hell hole with us.  I’m not actually sure that I _can_ stand up but Varric seems to have an inordinate amount of faith in my abilities because he simply slides his hands under my arms and hauls me to my feet.

“ _Fuck_.” The entire world spins dangerously around me and I nearly go straight back down. I would have, to, were it not for the sudden death grip I have on Varric’s shirt as I lean into the space between us, gasping like a dying fish.

“…sy there. You’ll be fine. Deep breaths. Come on, breathe with me. There you go. Maker, you’re more excitable than Daisy. Come on, now, take another breath. There you go. See? I’m going to try to let go…”

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare,” I manage to hiss, tightening my grip until I can feel my own nails digging into my palms.

Varric laughs. “You really are feisty, aren’t you?”

I glare. Not that he sees it, of course, but it’s the principle of the thing.

It’s not until we’re outside, standing upon a platform built into the side of a mountain that I realize that we’d been inside a building. That the crater of ash and rubble and death had been some sort of edifice once upon a time – possibly even recently. I force myself to swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat and look away. Definitely recently, if the twisted, almost melted corpses that we’d passed on our way out are anything to go by.

What sort of place is this?

 “C’mon, Red, let’s go.”

I follow Varric closely, a hand twisted in the fabric at the back of his shirt to keep myself from going ass over tea kettle every time I stumble. Which, even accounting for the bruises and cuts littering my skin and the heavy numbness of my extremities, is embarrassingly often. We get as far as the top of narrow, steep path before I make him stop.

“I don’t suppose you have a spare pair of boots, do you?” I ask hopefully, eyeing the path in front of me. It winds back and forth for quite a while before us before ending at a set of wider, if even steeper looking, stairs with what appears to be a frozen river at the bottom.

It is, in short, a death trap. Plus ice.

God, I hate having to walk on ice. Especially in heels.

“Afraid not.”

Fuck.

Of course not.

Well, at least my day can’t possibly get any worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to everyone who has hit that kudo button, subscribed, bookmarked, or commented! I am legitimately awful at replying to comments but rest assured that your wonderful feedback makes my poor writer's heart go pitter patter.
> 
> For those wondering, I _should_ be calling for some involvement at the end of the next chapter. 
> 
> This chapter was written almost entirely to Les Friction's _World on Fire_.


	4. Off the Edge of the Map

It gets worse.

I stare at my wrists, or, more accurately, I stare at the manacles on my wrists and wonder how the fucking hell I got caught up in this. I mean, _seriously_? All I had wanted out of today was to survive Stephen and Carol’s annual Christmas Eve party without resorting to murder and make it home to the soothing ritual of carbs and claymation. I’m pretty damn sure that had not been too much to ask for. But had I gotten it? Oh, oh no. Of course not.

No, instead I’d gotten a weird ass landscape, monsters, and a weird ass not-life.

Then, _then_ , I’d fallen through a goddamn piece of art into temperatures that would make hell freeze over and a landscape that could act as a good backdrop for some post-apocalyptic piece, demons – actual _demons_ , for Christ’s sake – battle, and pain. Of course, the cherry on the whole damn sundae, is the blithering idiot that had seen fit to assault us as we entered the little village – Heaven? Haven? Something like that – and slap irons on my wrists before I could do much more than blink.

Done. I’m so fucking done.

I sigh and lean forward, resting forehead on the scarred wood of the table. Everything hurts. Everything. God, when was the last time I slept? I remember waking up the morning of Christmas Eve. I got up early to make sure I had plenty of time to finish off the offering of cookies and the delicate mint chocolate cheesecake that I was contributing but how long ago had that been, exactly? It’d been close to ten when Mama B and I had left Stephen and Carol’s. How long has passed since that moment? How long did I spend wandering the silent, unstable world? How much time has passed since I’d fallen into this sharp existence of demons and mages?

More than a day, if the scratchy, burning feeling of my eyes is anything to go by.

The trip down from the mountaintop alone had taken hours. It had been full daylight when we’d started there amongst the ruins and the shining snow and the last of it, as we skirted a frozen lake and approached a little village, had been made by torchlight.

So, at least a day. Likely longer.

A day or more without sleep, food, or water with shock, injury, and the probable beginning of hypothermia on top of it.

Sweet baby Jesus, no wonder I feel like I’m about to pass out.

I swallow and force myself to take a slow, deep breath through my nose. Of course, now that I’ve thought about it the inside of my mouth feels like the Sahara. Fabulous.

I flinch in my seat as the door behind me swings open, letting a chorus of raised voices enter the room. 

“…dismiss the probability that she is dangerous! She could have caused the explosion!”

“That is what you said about Trevelyan and without him we would be overrun by demons.”

“And what do you think it says about him, that he is the only one that can close them? I still say that he is responsible for this mess!”

“Wait… I thought you said that _Red_ was responsible?”

“They’re in it together! An attack of this magnitude would be difficult for one person to pull off!”

“Now, Chancellor Roderick, why don’t we take this elsewhere? We can discuss it, _politely_ , over a cup of tea…”

“A cup of tea? The whole world is coming to end and you want to discuss it over a cup of tea? I’m not sure how they do things in Antiva but in _Orlais_ …”

“We are not in _Orlais_ , Chancellor. Most Holy is gone. We are simply trying…”

“Trying? Don’t be absurd! That woman is dangerous and you let her stroll down the mountainside with nothing but a salacious storyteller…”

“Hey!”

“…to keep her from attacking!”

“Attacking? Chancellor, the poor girl looked like she was about to fall over.”

“And I’m sure that would have been of great comfort to the people of Haven when you had to tell them that you’d let the Divine’s murderer run free!”

“ _ENOUGH_!”

A soft click pierces the air and the manacles tumble from my wrists, hitting the tabletop with a quiet _thunk_. I blink hazily and force myself to lift my head. The woman next to me meets my gaze calmly and lifts one finger to her lips, calling for my silence as she slips the small skeleton key into the pocket of her dusky gray coat.  I nod wearily, just once, my head as heavy as a load of bricks on top of my neck. She nods, once, and walks around the table, moving swiftly and silently with only the flicker of the candlelight to mark her passing. There’s something about her that looks passingly familiar and I latch on to that thought and mark her progress with tired eyes, trying to tease the memory from an equally exhausted brain.

The ruins.

Of course it’s from the ruins. It’s not like I’ve been anywhere else, really. She’d gone with Mr. Sharp Eyes and Max. She’d had a bow then.

I want to ask her if he’s alright but I can’t. For starters, I’m not even sure that I’d be able to actually get the words to come out of the cotton and sandpaper that is my throat. Additionally, the more I watch her, the more I feel like some poor mouse left out in the open with a sky full of circling hawks – like my only chance in the world is to remain completely and utterly still.

So I do.

“…the end of this!”

Behind me the argument reaches a breaking point as the idiotic Chancellor stomps away, his footfalls so pronounced that even I can hear them beating against the stone floors as he marches away. The woman across the table raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“ _Well_ ,” another woman sniffs behind me and sails into the room. I blink. She’s pretty in a very sweet, classic sort of way with her tawny brown skin, dark eyes, and thick black hair pulled up on top of her head in an elegant twist. She’s also dressed in brilliant yellow silk and looks rather like some exotic parrot that’s decided to take up residence with a bunch of field swallows. _And a hawk_ , I amend, with a glance at the woman who had freed me.

“Insufferable, pompous little man,” Cassandra’s voice growls and I barely keep myself from nodding in agreement. “Varric, _what_ are you doing?” A pause. “No. This is not any of your business!”

Varric snorts. “That’s what I was trying to tell you up in Kirkwall. But then you dragged me half way across the world and made it my business.  Besides, I’ve been on the receiving end of your idea of interrogation. No way I’m throwin’ Red into that dragon’s nest all by herself.”

God bless Varric.

Also, shit.

I am not up for an _interrogation_. At all. Hell, I don’t even think I can withstand an easily distracted, inquisitive five year old.

No, bad analogy. Five year olds are merciless.

“Let him in, Cassandra,” the woman who had freed me instructs.

Cassandra lets out a disgusted noise but apparently does as instructed because a moment later Varric drops into the seat next to me. “You alright, Red?”

I blink.

“Thought as much,” he mutters. “Lady Montilyet, I believe you mentioned tea?”

I blink.

Tea? Tea sounds lovely.

My soul for something hot and caffeinated.

Coffee. I don’t suppose they have coffee, do they?

The lady in yellow looks startled at the terse address, her dark eyes widening slightly. “Oh. Of course. Let me just…” she sails back across the room and cracks open the door and murmurs to someone on the other side. “It will be a moment.”

“While we wait for _tea_ ,” Cassandra spits quietly, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares at me, “you will tell us who you are.”

I blink.

A little blunt, isn’t she?

“Show you mine if you show me yours,” I croak. Beside me Varric chokes on air and the woman narrows her eyes in speculation as she studies me. I sigh. “Avery Williams,” it’s barely more than a whisper. I tip my head ever so slightly. “Varric Tethras.” I nod across the table. “Cassandra…Pent-something.”

“Pentaghast.”

I look at the other two women expectantly.

“Josephine Montilyet,” the bird with the exotic feathers murmurs politely, giving me a small bow from across the table. My lips twitch in a tired smile.

The woman in the middle is silent, studying me. I have zero doubts that had it just been her and I in room together things would be going very, _very_ differently. I swallow.

“Look… I don’t… I don’t know what you expect me to _do_ ,” I whisper. “I have no fucking idea what’s going on.  I don’t know how I got here. I don’t even know where here _is_ …” I stop as something tight sits in my throat, effectively strangling my tired thoughts with a quiet hopelessness. I give my head a little shake and take a couple of deep, measured breaths.  

A quiet knock on the door announces the arrival of tea and everyone is astoundingly quiet as a young man in blue and gray sets the tray on the table before scurrying out of the room with all the subtlety of a rat fleeing a sinking ship. Lucky bastard.

“Here.” Varric holds the delicate cup in front of me until I manage to wrap my shaking fingers around it, the surface of the deep, caramel colored liquid lapping against the sides of the cup as I raise it to my lips. It’s too hot to gulp and far sweeter than I normally take my tea but I’m not going to knock it. I certainly don’t let either fact stop from draining the cup in small, steady swallows. When I’m finished I hold out the cup hopefully and Varric wordlessly refills it.

“Thank you,” I tell him, pleased to note that my voice is steadier, if still raspy.

I drink the second cup with the same shaking persistence, vaguely aware that everyone in the room is staring at me like a frog that’s suddenly sported a top hat and performed a tap dance across the dining room table. I don’t care. The heat of the tea is doing its job, melting the ice block that’s sitting in my chest. Varric refills the cup for a second time when the renewed shivering of a body finally warming up forces me to set it down on the table for fear of dropping it. It seems silly, in some wild dark corner of my head, to be worried over a piece of goddamn china after all that has happened but Mama raised me to be careful with other people’s belongs.

So I set the cup down when my teeth start chattering uncontrollably and Varric refills it.

I apologize when I no longer sound like I’m trying to impersonate a chainsaw with my teeth. “I’m not exactly sure when I last drank anything,” I offer by way of explanation to the rest of the room. “Or slept. Or ate.”

“Oh,” Josephine makes a startled little noise and twitches like she’s thinking of poking her head out the door and calling back the poor fool who’d brought the tea. I hold her off with a faint shake of my head.

“Don’t bother on my account. I’m pretty sure it would just come right back up again.” The tea is pushing the limits as is so as I much as I want to gulp down the third cup and go back for the whole damn kettle I settle for wrapping my fingers around the porcelain and sucking in the warmth through my fingertips.

“Why are you here?”

“No fucking clue,” I answer honestly, daring another look at the woman across from here. Her clear blue eyes are like ice as they stare at me and I swallow nervously. “ _Presumably_ , I’m dreaming. Or in a coma – though I’d have preferred an orgy with the Avengers if that’s the case versus…” I wave idly at the room. “ _This_. This feels entirely too real.”

The woman raises a sharp, strawberry eyebrow. “You think you are dreaming?”

“I think the probability is high,” I nod. “So if you want to ask questions you should probably do it before I pass out. I can’t guarantee that I’ll still be here when I wake up.” I brave another sip of tea.

Cassandra and the blue-eyed woman exchange a look. The _be careful she’s mad as a hatter_ look. I’m not entirely sure I blame them. Even if this is just a dream – it’s a pretty damn crazy one. It probably says a few unsavory things that this is what my mind conjures as coma entertainment.

“What makes you think that you are dreaming?”

I wave my hand again. “Everything. Demons. Mages. Magic. The weaponry. The dress. The… everything. It’s all a high fantasy, isn’t it?" I  _had_ binged Game of Thrones recently.

The eyebrow quirks again. “So you’re not a mage?”

I snort. “No. Obviously.”

“Then how did you get in the Fade? What are you doing _here_?” the woman presses fiercely.

“How did I… what’s the Fade?” I ask. “No. You know, it doesn’t matter. I have _zero fucking clue_ either way. I told you, I don’t even know where the fuck _here_ is.”

Another look passes between the two women before Cassandra answers, “You are in Haven.”

I stare blankly.

“Near the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Or what is left of it.”

I blink.

“It is in Ferelden.”

I blink again.

Cassandra stares back. “I… I don’t know how else to identify it,” she finally admits rather faintly. This is clearly not how she saw this conversation going.

Me either, Cassandra. Me either.

“Perhaps Lady Williams can tell us where she is from?” Josephine speaks up sensibly. Or it sounds sensible.  Also, _Lady Williams_.  I bite back a slightly hysterical giggle.

_LATER_ , I remind myself.

The trio eyes me expectantly. “Atlanta, Georgia.” They stare. And stare. And then a delicate arch of an eyebrow. I sigh. “For fuck’s…Atlanta? Georgia? The United States of America?”

This, I decide as we all stare at each other with looks of blank frustration, is ridiculous. Aren’t you only supposed to be able to dream with things that already exist in your head? Faces you’ve passed on the street, words you've already read, scents and sounds that your brain has catalogued while you go about your life? I know next to nothing about dreaming but I’m still pretty damn sure that my brain can’t just spontaneously make up a whole new world.

Right?

“How about a map?” Varric suggests after a moment. “I’m sure Leliana has one.”

“Perhaps you simply know the places by different names?” Josephine offers but she’s sounding about as certain as I feel. That is to say, not one single fucking bit.

Still, if nothing else I’ve got a name for the third woman now. Which actually might have been the whole point of the comment, I realize, after stealing a look at Varric’s face. The rest of us might be caught up in a web of frustration but the man next to me is eyeing the birds across the table like he’s sighting them down the length of Bianca. The urge to hug him is almost overwhelming but I settle for a whispered thank you as Leliana produces a piece of yellowed paper from somewhere and spreads it across the table between us.

I take a deep breath and look.

“What is this?” I ask after a moment, fingers tracing the lines on the paper as I lean forward to study it. There is nothing there that I recognize. Absolutely nothing at all.

The actual lines of the map are familiar in that I can tell that it is, in fact, a map. I can pick out the lines of rivers and the paths of mountain ranges. My eyes can note the dots that signify cities and find the delicate strokes that separate land from sea. Beyond that though… nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s not a recreation of Middle Earth or any of the other numerous fantasy maps sitting on my bookshelf at home, nor is it a bastardization of any map I recognize. There are words there, careful script naming cities and rivers and oceans that I can’t read, that I can’t even begin to decipher.

“What the fuck is this?” I repeat a little more harshly, pulling back my hand before the sudden shaking becomes obvious.

“This is Thedas,” Cassandra grunts. _Obviously_.

I don’t roll my eyes.

Barely.

Leliana points to a small dot towards the center of the map, nestled right up against a mountain range that appears to bisect a continent. “We are here.”

“Well… _fuck_ ,” I whisper shakily. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity buggering _fuck_.”

Houston, we have a problem.

A great, big ass problem.

“Is this… everything? All of… Thedas?” I ask quietly.

“Yes.”

It starts quietly, a tickle somewhere in the center of my chest. By the time it makes it out of my mouth it is high pitched and frantic and I can’t stop it. I can’t do anything but clutch at the scarred edge of the table like a damn lifeline and laugh against the wood. Faintly I’m aware of someone calling my name, of a firm, if gentle arm going around my shoulders but I can’t stop laughing, not even when the tears start streaming down my cheeks and pooling on the table. The room spins around me, tilting and whirling until my stomach twists uncomfortably.

Oh god.

I close my eyes.

“Now would be an excellent time to wake up,” I murmur. “Absolutely excellent.”

Nothing happens.

Of course.

“Well,” I say when I finally manage to get myself under some poor semblance of control. “If this is a dream this is truly one of the realest, weirdest, most fucked up things I’ve ever dreamed.” And honestly, I didn’t want to think too closely about that because I’ve had a lot of fucked up dreams. It’s the realness that sends this to the top of the list, the sharp definition something not normally found in my dreams. It’s the distinct grain of the wood table beneath my fingers and the faint, floral scent of the tea that terrifies me. It’s the fact that even though I’ve moved on from the ruins and the demons I can still feel it inside my head – bright and detailed instead of fading as one part of the dream turns to another.

Leliana eyes me from across the table, a bastion of calm in the face of my hysterics. “And if it is not a dream?”

I smother back another round of laughter. Mostly. “Well, then I suppose I would have to ask you how you feel about a visitor from a different world. Or dimension. Or time, possibly.” Though I stand fast by initial reaction that this _Thedas_ looks nothing like anything I’ve ever seen of Earth from Pangea on up.

I could be wrong though.

God, let me be wrong.

I’m about nine thousand percent certain that if you polled the inhabitants of Earth for their ideal envoy to a different world I would not make the top billion. Fuck, who am I kidding? Probably not even the top two .

“Well, shit.” Varric breathes after a moment of stunned silence. “That’s… that’s…”

“What, exactly, are you trying to say?” Cassandra growls as she leans across the table. “That you… that you…”

A firm knock on the door interrupts the stern woman’s words. A young man in gray and blue – who very well might be the poor sod who brought tea but I’m not sure – pokes his head through the door after Leliana gives permission. “Uh…Apostate Solas is here to see you? He…”

“Perfect,” Leliana interrupts. “Send him in.”

The young man vanishes with a slight squeak and Mr. Sharp suddenly appears in his place, keen silver eyes taking in the room as he slips inside, shutting the door firmly behind him. I swallow as those eyes linger on me for a moment, shivering softly beneath Varric’s continued grip on my shoulders.

“How is Trevelyan?”

 “He is alive. The mark has stabilized for now and is no longer spreading. I will continue to observe him but I suspect simple rest and healing is what he needs now,” Solas finally replies, his voice soft and carefully articulated. It seems wrong, coming from him. He doesn’t entirely feel like a soft and easy-going sort of guy. He _looks_ it, though, if you ignore the blood on his clothes and the weird stick rising over his shoulders that is, guaranteed, taller than I am. He looks all cuddly and awkward. Slap a pair of glasses on his face he wouldn’t be out of place the quiet and dusty corners of any library in the world.

But he doesn’t feel it at all.

Beneath the weathered and threadbare clothing and the slightly-too-big sweater there’s something that makes everything go quiet, millennia of evolution kicking in.

_Stay quiet. Stay still. Stay safe_.

“Thank you.”

He’s looking at me again, the narrowed focus of his eyes pinning me to my chair more effectively than all the chains that a certain idiot chancellor could have used.  “It is not me you have to thank,” he told Cassandra. “It is her. I did not expect his body to survive such abuse. If it were not for you,” he tips his head ever so slightly, “then I would not have looked past the surface and he would have died.”

I blink.

Max, I realize suddenly. They’re talking about Max. Trevelyan must be his last name. I roll it around in my head a few times before deciding that it fits him.

“I’m sure you are relieved to hear that Trevelyan is doing well.”

Leliana’s careful voice pulls me from the trap of Solas’ gaze and I look at her, brow furrowing. “Of course I am,” I say because it’s the truth.

“Why?”

I blink. “Why?” I repeat back to her, thrown by the sudden chill of her voice. “Because he was kind to me.” In this strange new nightmare that I've found myself he’d offered me kindness and a smile.

Cassandra snorts.

“How long have you known Maxwell Trevelyan?”

“Honestly, what the hell do you not ge… less than a day, okay?” I cough up and Cassandra snorts, _again_. “You were _there_ for fuck’s sake. I swear, I’ve never met the man before today.” I meet Leliana’s gaze, willing her to see the truth of things in my gaze.

After a moment the other woman nods slowly.

“You can’t seriously believe _that_ …”

Leliana shrugs. “It’s either true or she’s the best liar I’ve ever met.”

Now it’s my turn to snort. Me? A good liar? I have an entire fucking life time of groundings and lectures to prove otherwise.

“But he…!” Cassandra’s face turns an interesting shade of pink and she motions wildly with one hand.

“…tried to suck my face off in the middle of a fight?” I finish for her. “Yeah, I know. And while it was a damn good kiss – and I mean _day-um_ ,” Josephine giggles, hiding her face with her hand, “if I’m still here when he wakes up he better have a brilliant explanation for it or I’m going to introduce my knee to his balls.”

Varric chokes. Or laughs. Probably a little of both, actually.

Solas fixes me with that stare again. “If you are still here?”

“Red – _Avery_ – seems to think that she’s dreaming,” Varric explains. “Maker, I almost hope that she is. That this is nothing but…” he lets out a shaking breath.

“Dreaming, or that she is from a different world,” Leliana corrects. “I was hoping that you might help us on that matter.”

Solas shakes his head. “We are not dreaming, Child of Stone. Not even the strongest of demons could weave a trap so…”

“…detailed,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

He hums in agreement. “Or so vast. Demons have a limited radius of influence. As for being from another world…” the entire room seems to hold its breath. “… it is not beyond the realm of possibility.”

I close my eyes.

Well.

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

By the time we are done talking my voice is nothing but a raspy whisper than no amount of tea can resurrect and to say that I am dragging would be more than kind. Shivering I huddle into the warmth of Varric’s coat and stare up at the man standing next to me. He’s not a large man – tall, yes, but wiry instead of bulky.  I’d bet every last penny to my name that he’s the most dangerous person in the building, if not the whole damn village. Even now with my head buzzing with exhaustion I can’t help but eye him warily from over the collar of Varric’s coat. He’s also balder than an egg, the smooth skin of his head shining in the torchlight as we stand just inside a set of double doors waiting for Varric, who’s still in the room at the back of the building. Cassandra had wanted _words_ with him.

I imagine that’s going well.

I also don’t know why Solas is still standing with me, or why he led me over here to begin with instead of letting me wait just outside the interrogation room as a pathetic lump on the floor. Pathetic lumping requires so much less energy.

“Do you really think I’m from another world?” I ask tiredly, because even now, even after all the talking it still seems like an absolutely preposterous idea.

I mean, _really_. Even if this sort of shit happens it’s not really the sort of shit that happens to _me_. Win fifty bucks off of a scratch and play lottery ticket? Sure. Somehow stumble – or crash – into a different world? Not so much.

There’d been no Narnia hidden at the back of any of my childhood closets and no letter arriving by owl on my eleventh birthday to free me from the mundane.

 “In the end, I think it is not the world that you came from that is going to matter. It’s the place that you passed through before arriving,” Solas’ words snap me from my internal reverie. I blink beneath the weight of his gaze. “I know what you are,” he whispers softly as he stares at me unseeing. “Once you would have been welcomed with feasts and dancing. Once you would have acknowledged for what you were – a partnership instead of a curse.” He touches my cheek gently, smoothing a bit of hair back behind my ear. “Things are not as they once were, little one.”

He’s not talking to me.

Sure, he’s staring me full in the face, but he’s not talking to me. Not quite. Not really.

I’ve never be more sure of something in my life.

“Solas…?”

My fingers twitch inside the oversized sleeve. I want to touch him, trace the arch of his cheekbones and tell him that it will be okay. That everything will be alright, even if I don’t quite believe it. I want to chase the shadow out of those fierce eyes, to shoo away the feeling that we’re standing at the foot of a grave staring at a memory that he wishes he could forget.

He blinks, long and slow, at the sound of his name. It’s the first I’ve said it despite the time spent answering his questions.

“You must leave,” he tells me, fierce and terrible. “You must disappear from this place.”

I laugh. “And go where?” I ask bitterly. “At least here there are people that…”

“People that will hunt you like some rapid animal that has wandered too near their flocks,” he spits harshly.

I press my lips into a thin line. “I like to think that people are better than that, if given a chance.”

Solas bites back a growl. “History says otherwise. They will name you _abomination_ and they will not stop until you are dead.” The surety in his eyes is enough to kill any retort in my mouth and I gape like a banked fish. “The world is much changed and I will not be able to protect you.”

I bristle a little at that. It’s not like I’m asking him – or anyone else – to protect me. Sure, people have and I for one am damn grateful because getting clawed apart by creepy things is so, so not on my To Do list. But I haven’t asked for a single fucking thing since I got here.

Except for tea.

And possibly for one of those nasty healing potion things.

And proper boots.

Ok. Three things. I’ve asked for three goddamn things.

“I’m not going to run away,” I mutter. I’m not. If for no other reason than I’d probably die of hypothermia before I got passed the lake.

“Think on it,” he reiterates. “ _Dar’eth shiral_ , _da’lath’in.”_

I stare at the doors after he’s gone, trying to make sense of it. Of _him_. Of everything.

Fuck, but I’m too tired for this.

“What was that?”

I jump at the sound of Varric’s voice, the sudden intrusion on my foggy thoughts enough to startle me halfway out of my skin. “Jesus! Varric, give a girl a little warning,” I gasp as I brace myself on my knees, heart hammering.

“Red – nope, you’re right, that’s shit.” He shakes his head as if to dislodge something. “Avery, I called your name about a dozen times. Thought you’d pulled a Broody and managed to pass out while standing up.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Pulled a…a what?”

Varric waves his hand. “Another time. When you’re coherent. Let’s go find you a place to sleep and something to clean up that arm of yours.”

Oh. That sounds delightful.

“So what did Solas want?” Varric asks after helping me down the treachery that is the steps leading up to the… church? Definitely some kind of church. They’d called it something else though.

I glance out at the darkness of the village, at the little buildings lying quiet in the dirty snow. It’s quiet, so much quieter than I would have expected after the chaos of today. I lift my gaze and there, in the distance, for just a moment I catch a gleam of silver.

“Nothing,” I murmur quietly, silencing the questions chasing themselves round and round inside my skull. Later. I can fall apart later.  I can work myself into a tizzy later. Later, later, later.

Unless, of course, I wake up.

“It was nothing,” I repeat as I let Varric lead me away.

And Varric, bless him, drops it.

Even though I know he doesn’t believe me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dar’eth shiral, da’lath’in_ = Safe journey, little heart.
> 
> \-----------------  
>  **Input Required**
> 
> Ok, it will be a bit before said character appears on screen but I need to know for world building purposes:
> 
> Alistair or Loghain?


	5. Definitely Not in Kansas Anymore

My head is killing me.

_Killing_ me.

Absolute _murder_.

It’s the sort of headache that you can feel before you even wake up, pounding away at the inside of your skull and squeezing at your eyeballs until you’re regretting your own existence long before your brain is even trying to form coherent thoughts. It’s the sort of headache that makes you idly wonder, there in that weird place between consciousness and unconsciousness, why you are even bothering trying to wake up because you know, as soon as you do, that you’re _dead_. Or as good as. It’s the sort of headache that has caused fraying tempers, wishes for death, and prayers to the mighty porcelain god – or his historical incarnations – for years without number.  

I groan and twist deeper into the bedding. Had Mama B and I upped our Rudolph game with numerous cocktails?

Oh, god. We hadn’t gotten into the tequila, had we?

Stephen and Carol’s had been shitty but I don’t think it’d been _that_ bad this year.

The fear of having taken advantage of the tequila stash – and really, why the fuck do we even _have_ a tequila stash? – is apparently enough to propel me all the way into wakefulness. I regret it immediately. For two reasons.

First, it’s not just my head that is killing me. Oh, no. My entire body is screaming bloody murder. In fact, the headache may be the least of my pains. Which sucks balls. Which is a bad analogy because sucking balls is actually rather fun. God damn it, I really just need to stop thinking. And moving. And quite possibly breathing. Fuck, but it feels like I decided to run a marathon in heels and then happened to get hit by a train.

Second, this is most definitely not my bed. It’s not Mama B’s bed either. Or the couch. Christ, it’s not even the floor, though it certainly feels hard enough. The smell is all wrong. Wherever I am smells of smoke and sweat and a very male musk with an odd, almost acrid hint of ink and paper.

I open my eyes.

“ _Fuck_.”

The scene that stares back at me is most definitely not my bedroom. Or… anything I’m familiar with, really. It’s a tent. Or at least I’m pretty sure it’s a tent, the waxed fabric walls glowing in the light. It’s also a small tent with nothing more than a cot to keep the bedding up off the ground and a small trunk sitting next to it.

I blink.

Nothing happens.

Damn it.

I carefully – so very carefully – turn myself over and huddle under the weight of the bedcovers, staring at the pitched ceiling while I think. It comes back slowly, tiptoeing back into my head like a pack of teenagers long after curfew. The first few memories are hazy and insubstantial, just like the landscape in which they took place. Sharper are the memories of falling through the odd twist of light, of the fight there in the ruins on the mountaintop, of the _demons_. Jesus Christ. The walk down from the mountain is less sharp: the ache of the cold, the burning pain in my arm, the continual effort not to kill myself on the treacherous paths.

No wonder I feel like I ran a marathon in heels. I practically _did._ Shit, I deserve a fucking medal for that. Or at least a hot bath. And a massage.

The interrogation turned conversation, however, is burned into the inside of my skull. I remember every word, every movement with startling clarity. The way everyone looked, the way the room smelled, the weight of the tea in my uneasy stomach as I sat and had to, at least in some corner of my brain, accept the possibility that I _might_ be on a different world. Just maybe. I remember the look on Solas’ face as he bid me to flee. I can feel it like a physical touch somewhere in the center of my chest.

_Run. Run. Run,_ it hammers against my ribs.

After that things get a little hazy again. I purse my lips and glare at the ceiling as I struggle to pull even the smallest of details back into my head.  Varric had… we’d walked somewhere, slipping and sliding on the muddy ice. He’d kept me from a rather spectacular face plant in the slush at the foot of some stairs. Good man, Varric. After that I remember fire and a mouthful of something that tasted remarkably like paint thinner and… nothing.

I lay and glare at the tent above me for some time.

 

* * *

 

“Well, look who has decided to join the land of the living! Good afternoon, Spitfire.” My mouth twists at the new name and I blink against the glare of the sun to find Varric perched on top of a nearby bench, his feet stretched out towards the warmth of a fire. A very necessary fire. Afternoon or no, it’s fucking freezing out here. Varric pulls a face and shakes his head, patting the bench beside him. “Nope, that one’s shit too. Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.”

I hiss as my bare toes touch the frozen ground, dancing from one foot to the other as I pull his coat tighter around my shoulders and make my way over. Freezing or not there is no way I’m putting my heels back on. It’s just not happening. “I do already have a name,” I inform him as I drop onto the bench and promptly pull my knees up to my chin. If I huddle just right I can get everything but my feet underneath the warm weight of the coat.

I’m also in danger of falling backwards onto my ass but I’m willing to risk it.

“Oh, I know, but I’ll give you a better one. Author’s prerogative.” He smirks. “Still think you’re dreaming?” he asks after a moment of silence.

I stare beyond the fire to the village that had been masked in darkness by the time I’m stumbled through it. It looks bigger in the daylight, a series of wooden buildings springing up from the ground and lining what looks like a handful of muddy roads that traipse across the hillside. I can see just a sliver of the lake over the rise of the wall surrounding the village, its surface shining like a polished mirror in the sunlight. In the dark of the night it had been a ghost town. The only people that I’d seen had been those with me and the handful of soldiers standing at the gate.

Oh, and the idiot. Can’t forget about him.

Fucking Roderick.

It’s completely different in the light of day. Haven is full of people. There’s people huddled against the side of buildings and people loitering in the doorways. There’s people sitting in front of tents and people walking in the streets. There’s soldiers – or at least people in armor – everywhere I look and I catch a glimpse of more than one person sneaking about in the blue-and-gray costume of the kid that brought last night’s tea. There’s a weight to the air as if the entire town is holding their breath. I can feel it thrumming against my skin: a quivering excitement mixed with a heady, hysterical panic.

No one is looking at the sky.

Not that I can blame them.

The massive fucking hole is… not gone, for all that I doubt that I could see up into the swirling vortex even if I were standing underneath it again. It’s obscured. Distorted. Like I’m trying to look at it through bubbled, smoky glass.

It makes my skin crawl.

“Still hoping,” I finally admit. “Though it’s look increasingly unlikely.”

“I’m sorry.”

The apology catches me off guard and I turn to look at the man perched next to me. He’s studying me quietly, his lips turned in a slight frown. It looks wrong on him. “It’s not like it’s your fault,” I murmur, noticing the dusting of freckles across the arch of his cheekbones. There’s not as many as I’d expect for a red head.

“No, but it’s not like anyone else is going to think of how hard this is for you. They’re all busy with that,” he motions vaguely at the green and gold swirl over their head.

“And rightly so,” I mutter. “In case you missed, that’s a big ass hole in the sky.”

Varric shrugs. “At least it’s not raining demons anymore.”

I nod. There’s that. Thank god.

“Tea?” I blink to discover that Varric’s holding a large, earthen mug out towards me. “Careful,” he cautions. “I’ve been keeping it warm by the fire.”

The heat is delicious against my skin and I hum my approval as I clutch the mug to my chest, willing it to soak in and warm the rest of me. After giving it a few minutes to cool – hopefully enough so it doesn’t completely scald my throat – I take a cautious sip. It’s bitter, over steeped, not sweetened in the slightest, and strong enough to walk on. It’s also hot. Brilliantly, fantastically hot.

“Did you put one of those potion things in it?” I ask, peering into the cup as I move my tongue around in my mouth. It feels kind of fuzzy. And slime covered.

Varric lets out a negative sounding grunt. “No,” he clarifies a moment later, swallowing his own drink. “It’s been a rough couple of days. Any potions left are being saved for the worst cases. I tossed in a couple of elfroot leaves in with the tea when I brewed it.” I give him a blank look, trying to not think about the fact that the sky had been broken for _days_ before Max had done whatever he’d done that had made it stop vomiting demons down on everyone’s heads. But _fuck_ , how is there anything left standing? “It’s the main ingredient in most healing potions,” he explains.

Ah.

“Still tastes like shit,” I mutter as I go back to sipping at the hot liquid.

The man beside me lets out a strangled laugh. “Yeah. It does. Figured it would do you good after how last night ended, though.”

“And how did last night end?” I ask, and then promptly blush because Jesus _Christ_ that came out wrong. “I don’t remember,” I mumble. “Well… I _remember_ but…” I shake my head and try again. “Everything after we left the…” I wave my hand at the building that I can feel rising behind us.

“… chantry?”

“Yes, that. I can’t remember much of what happened after that.”

Varric shrugs. “Not much. You managed to make it back here without falling flat on your ass – which, I give you, is impressive in those shoes of yours – and then we took care of your arm. You passed out about halfway through the stitches.”

Oh.

Well.

That makes a bit of sense.

And I’m kind of glad – really, fucking glad – that I can’t remember getting stitches sans anesthesia.

“Thanks for that,” I tell him after a long moment of silence.

He waves a hand dismissively. “It’s not a problem. Really.  Hawke gave me lots of practice in stitching up wounds. Bastard is always bleeding.” Varric wrinkles his nose at the comment that slips out of his mouth, lips twisting in a semblance of another frown.

We finish our tea in silence and I hold the mug long after the liquid has run out, clinging to the last vestiges of warmth. Varric notices. “C’mon,” he tugs gently on my arm. “While you were sleeping the day away I managed to find you something warm to wear. I even found a spare pair of boots.”

With a sound that sounds suspiciously like a squeal – and oh, dear god, please let me never make that sound again – I throw my arms around Varric’s neck and plant a bold kiss on his cheek.

Truly, Varric Tethras is a god amongst men.

Also, fucking adorable when he blushes.

 

* * *

 

I feel significantly more human after a trip to the latrine and a not-so-quick bath taken in a barrel full of tepid water. A _warm_ human, even, thanks to clothing that Varric gave me. The pieces are simple and worn with wear but they’re clean and warm – did I mention warm? So fantastically warm. I wiggle my toes in the boots, rejoicing that my skin is no longer touching the freezing expanse of the ground. The boots are a little on the big side, even with the incredibly thick wool socks, but I can’t bring myself to care. They are fucking _miles_ better than heels.

“There you are. I was beginning to think that you’d fallen in and drowned.” Varric’s voice leads me to where the dwarf – and _that_ had been an interesting conversation as we tottered down the mountainside yesterday and one that we should probably revisit at some point now that I’m a little more coherent and receptive – is leaning against the corner of the bathhouse, smoking.

I do a double take at the thin cylinder held loosely between his fingers.

“That’ll kill you, you know,” I mutter, jerking my chin at the cigarette.

Varric raises an eyebrow. “Really?” He regards the item with interest for a moment. “Before the demons?”

I snort. “Probably not,” I admit as I stop just upwind of him. “But it’s shit for your health.”

“Eh,” he shrugs and exhales. “I imagine that the drinking and self-loathing aren’t beneficial either but they sell more books than the words themselves ever could.” Another drag as I stare him, gaping like a damn fish. “You clean up good,” he adds, almost as an afterthought and I stare down at my new wardrobe.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” I think. I’m not sure I’d have ever considered leather leggings, an oversized brown shirt, and a faded – if wonderfully thick – blue coat _cleaning up good_ but thinking of the state of the little red cocktail dress I suppose it’s probably true. If for no other reason than there’s not enough oxyclean in the whole of existence to redeem the ragged slip of crimson fabric. “I feel a bit like a kid caught playing dress up in their parent’s clothes.”

He laughs at that. “At first I thought to find some dwarven clothing for you – you’re very nearly short enough to be one of us – but you would have drowned in them otherwise. Your proportions aren’t quite right.”

I blink.

“My… _what_?” I ask dangerously.

Varric smiles and the movement eases the less than cheerful look that had been hovering at the corner of his eyes.  “Your proportions. Dwarves are, well, stocky,” he motions at himself in a clear _enter exhibit A_ fashion. “You, are not. You’re hippy, to be sure, but you’re a tiny slip of a woman otherwise.”

I blink at him.

“Hippy? You think I’m _hippy_?” I don’t shriek. I _don’t_ , god damn it, and I certainly don’t smooth my hands over the fabric covering the body part in question.

Stupid fucking traitorous hands.

I’m not hippy. I’m not. Not even a little. Little, in fact, can be used to describe everything about me. Little butt, little hips, little breasts. Little enough to be mistaken for a dwarf, apparently. Little enough that I’ve had people a decade younger than me treat me like a fucking five year old lost in the mall if I forget to throw on makeup and a damn push up bra.

 “I’m not hippy,” I mutter sullenly.

Fuck, I even sound like I’m five.

“Whatever you say, Hips,” Varric drawls as he puffs out another cloud of smoke. I glare. He grins. “Hungry?” he asks after another few drags.

“Starving.”

Okay, maybe not literally starving but I’m damn sure hungry. And not just _hungry -_ I’m way past the point of a growling stomach and well into the territory of pinching, aching emptiness and a lightheaded pounding in my temples that won’t go away.

Varric grounds the remnant of his cigarette into the snow and jerks his head. “C’mon. Let’s feed you and then I can send off another round of letters.”

I follow him like a puppy chasing a hot dog.

 

* * *

 

_The Singing Maiden_ is one part dive bar, one part diner, and one part hospital waiting room. Though whether it’s the waiting room full of people waiting to hear news about a loved one or the room full of wounded awaiting attention I can’t quite decide. A bit of both, probably.

“That is definitely not sanitary,” I mutter, staring at the man a few tables away who’s busy changing the bandage on his arm in between bites of food.

“At least it’s not infected,” Varric shrugs off. Apparently he’s a glass-half-full sort of guy. Fucker.

“Yet.”

I stare skeptically at the bowl of food placed in front of me. It’s supposed to be stew but I’m having some serious doubts. It looks a great deal more like brown sludge and smells like a teenage boy’s gym locker.  I poke at it with my spoon. The entire thing wiggles like jello and then breaks, cracks forming in the surface to weep a greasy clear liquid across the top of the bowl.  I poke it again.

“What are you eating?” I ask distractedly. I can’t stop poking at the damn stew. I wonder if it’ll hatch or explode or… _something_ … if I poke it enough times. I’m certainly not putting it in my mouth for anything less than seven figures.

“Porridge. Why?” I steal the spoon out of his hand. “Andraste’s tits, Avery, I…”

“Shush.” I stare at the spoonful of tannish goo sticking to the spoon. And I mean sticking to it. I can flip the spoon upside down and the shit doesn’t even flinch. “This looks revolting,” I mutter and promptly pop it into my mouth.

Oh, dear sweet baby Jesus on a pogo stick.

It _is_ revolting.

It’s like when I ate that fucking glue stick in kindergarten except that this tastes very, very faintly of oatmeal. Which, oddly enough, is _not_ an improvement.

It takes several forceful swallows, a few minutes of sputtered choking, and a rushed mouthful of slightly warm beer before my throat is clear.

Varric regards his bowl with something that is either determination or disgust. Or quite possibly both. “That bad?”

“It’s edible,” I tell him as I hand back his spoon. “And by _edible_ I mean I’m _pretty_ sure it’s not going to kill you. This, on the other hand…” I poke the semi volcanic sludge in my bowl again and am immediately rewarded by the entire thing splitting straight down the middle.   _It_ on the other hand is most definitely not suitable for consumption. Human or animal. I’m not even sure I could bring myself to feed it to Roderick.

Throw it in his face? No problem.

Feed it to him? Eh. I like to think that I’m a better person than that. At least until I know for sure whether he’s a paranoid asshole or just an asshole all round.

“Hang tight,” I tell Varric. “I’m going to talk to the chef.”

The kitchen is easy enough to find – even if it does take me a few blinking moments to realize what it is. There’s no shining stainless steel, no polished stone, no gleaming – or even grease spattered – appliances anywhere in sight. It throws me in the same way that the map did, making everything in my chest go tight and my fingers tingle as I struggle to get a single mouthful of air past the constriction of my own throat.

Once I get my shit together though – and it takes a few minutes but at least I don’t completely lose my mind and start cackling like a children’s cartoon – I’m able to notice that all the hallmarks that make a kitchen a _kitchen_ are still present.

 There’s a low table on the back wall flanked by two doors, a large basin sitting on the wooden surface, and what I recognize as a pump handle attached a line rising out of the ground. _Sink_.

There’s a long table in the center of the room, the scarred wood littered with various pots and pans filled with things in various stages of dead. _Prep space._

A handful of barrels are lined against the wall to my left and above them, on a series of shelves, are a myriad of bags and tins. Dried herbs and braided onions hang from hooks on the ceiling and I’m _pretty_ sure that those are potatoes over in the straw covered crate in the corner. _Pantry_.

Running parallel to the sink and the workspace is the mirror of the fireplace in the dining room. The damn thing is at least a foot taller than I am and as long as my bed. A large pot hangs at the edges of the flames, the congealed surface bubbling ominously. Another, slightly smaller, one sits on the hearth half full of the dubious porridge, serving spoon standing straighter than a freshly starched soldier. There’s even a wood cook stove over on the far right, its metal surface dull and cold. _Heat._

There’s not anything that I can liken to a refrigerator but I imagine that the entire fucking outdoors serves well enough and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if one of the doors in the back led to some sort of uninsulated cold room. Or maybe there’s some sort of cellar.

In fact, once I take a few deep breaths and get my head on straight the only thing missing in the damn kitchen is the actual chef.

Of course.

Feeling a bit like I’m watching a five car pileup I drift further into the kitchen and let the door shut behind me. The workspace is even dirtier up close. Not muddy dirty, not flamboyantly dirty, but grimy in the way things only get when they go a long, long time without a good scrubbing. Half of the dishes sitting on it are empty and the other half are filled with various half completed dishes that look like they’re auditioning as a grade school science fair project.

The dish that looks like it started its life as some sort of sticky bun appears to be winning.

The bang of a door against the wall is enough to make me squeal like a little girl – for the second time today, no less, god damn it – and wrap my hands around the handle of a grimy piece of cast iron.

“…tell them. It… _Fenedhis_!”

A thin, willowy woman stares at me as the stack of wood she’d been carrying tumbles into a large box set by one of the back doors – a door that’s still open, a whistle of frigid air sweeping into the room from the snow covered courtyard outside. She’s taller than me – not that _that_ is hard to accomplish – with large eyes the pale green of sea glass and black hair that’s pulled severely back from her face and knotted into a braid that I doubt it could escape even if it wanted to. Her features are delicate and thin, the arch of brow and cheekbones highlighted by graceful lines of an incandescent deep red tattoo. The ink is gorgeous and cuts the whimsy of her features, drawing attention instead to the bold lines of her bone structure and the pointed slash of her ears.

We stare at each other for a few minutes before another rush of cold air sends her scrambling for the door. “Uh… do you… I mean… c-can I help you?” She stares at me with something like dismay.

“Um…maybe,” I respond slowly. “Are you the chef? The cook?” I clarify after noting her blank stare. “Did you make…” I wave at the hearth.

“…yes?”

A bark of laugher erupts out of my chest. “You don’t sound very sure.” I pause and she gives me a panicked look, mouth working silently. “It’s not that hard of a question,” I try to reassure but she just looks more panicked. Jesus. “Did you make the food?” I try again. Patiently.

I can be patient. When I want to.

Maybe.

“I… yes. Yes, I did. But I told him – I _told_ him that I wasn’t a cook!” she suddenly bursts out, hands waving wildly at the room around us. “I told him and he wouldn’t listen! _Fenedhis!_  Is it because I’m an elf? Creators, it’s because I’m an elf, isn’t it? But I’m not one of _those_ elves. I don’t serve in some _shem_ household. I’ve the _vallaslin_! You’d think he could tell that I’m not Dalish and not one of those… those…” she gestures particularly violently, sputtering wordlessly for a few minutes before she ploughs onward. “I told him I wasn’t a cook but he demanded anyway and so I made him breakfast and hoped that he’d go away but then other people came and they were hungry and I…but I can’t _cook_!” she explodes finally.

I’m pretty sure that _I_ am about to explode from the questions that suddenly pop into existence at the deluge of words.

Also, I need to sit Varric down in a dark corner somewhere and play twenty questions a couple dozen times. Apparently _demon, mage,_ and _dwarf_ are just the tip of the iceberg and I’m already the Titanic at half past midnight.

I blink.

She stares at me, chest heaving and face red.

I blink again.

“Obviously,” I drawl before I can stop myself. Smooth move, Avery. I rub my hand down the front of my face and try again. “What I meant was… _well._ ” What I meant was that clearly she couldn’t cook and for the life of me I can’t think of a diplomatic way to say that.

She giggles. “Yes. _Well_ ,” she repeats back at me, offering a wry smile as her cheeks turn pink. “I can manage a porridge in a pinch but I’m not, um, used to making such quantities. It’s usually just me out in the woods and if I’m hungry enough to make porridge then I don’t particularly care if it’s…um…”

“…overcooked?”

She nods. “I can find food, though. I’m good at that – at the gathering and the hunting and the cleaning. I’m a hunter after all – it’s just… it all rather falls apart for me after that.”

I force back another bark of laughter. “I can see that,” I agree rather faintly.

“So…what did you…?” she motions around the kitchen.

“I just wanted to talk to the… cook… about what’s being served. The porridge _is_ rather overcooked but the stew is well on its way to walking on its own.” The woman gives me a rather blank look.  I sigh. “I mean that it’s gone bad and that anyone that eats it is liable to spending the next day or two sitting on the latrine and praying to die.”

She continues to stare at me rather blankly for a few moments and then a light of understanding bursts across her face like the sunrise. “Oh,” she says. “ _Oh_. But I didn’t make it! It was just _there!_ I thought it would be safe!”

Given what I’ve seen and heard about her cooking skills in the last five minutes I can see how she would have drawn that conclusion. It seems like a pretty damn safe conclusion. Still…

“What do you mean _‘it was just there’_?”

I don’t scream.

I don’t.

But it’s fucking close.

“When the sky exploded. It was chaos, everybody was running everywhere, trying to get away from the demons. Trying to find… Trying to…” she trails off roughly and I don’t need any help to imagine the panic and the fear. It’s still here, after all, a low hum buried underneath the village. I can see it in the faces of everyone I’ve passed today, hear it in the slightly desperate cry of a mother looking for the child who had simply wandered around to the other side of an impressive woodpile. I can even taste it, light and delicate on my tongue like meringue. There one minute and gone the next.  “Once the soldiers had managed to push them back, to keep them out of the village I… I hid here,” she admits, clearly ashamed. “And then after I made him the porridge I thought that, well, since it was already here and warm on the fire it wouldn’t do any harm to pass it out to those looking for a bite to eat. I couldn’t… Creators, I couldn’t save them but I could at least give them that.”

Her words hit me so hard I nearly go to my knees. Would have too, if the table hadn’t been right there at my hip for me to grab on to.

When Madie had been born I’d stocked Stephen and Carol’s freezer with enough meals to feed a small army.

When Mrs. Lewis across the way had lost her husband a year ago I started bringing cookies or other baked goods. Every week. We’d sit on her porch or in her living room and eat a plate of cookies while drinking sweet tea. We don't talk.

When Mama B had been going through chemo I’d spent more money on food than on our house payment and usual grocery bill combined. I also gained twenty pounds and fed the whole fucking block three meals a day. And dessert.

“Yeah,” I agree softly. “I get it.”

And I do.

I pause. “My name is Avery,” I offer, hoping that she’ll give me her name in return.

The apparently universal cultural politeness of exchanging names does not let me down. Hallelujah.

“Ellana. Hunter Ellana, of clan Lavellan.”

We grip hands over what I’m pretty sure is cheese. Very dead cheese.

“Do you still want to do that?” I ask quietly as I withdraw my hand. Ellana nods fiercely, instantly.

“Yes.”

I smile, grinning like the cat that caught the fucking canary and then washed it down with a gallon of cream. “Alright, Ellana this is what we’re going to do – first we’re going to get that god damn monstrosity off the fire so that we can dispose of it – _somehow_ – after it’s no longer threatening to go off like Vesuvius. Then we’re going to get rid of the oatmeal flavored glue. _Then_ we’re going to scrub the ever loving shit out of this place. And _then_ we are going to cook.”

“I told you that I ca…”

“…n’t cook. Yes, you did,” I agree. I’m still grinning like a giddy school girl. It’s pathetic. And exhilarating. And more steadying than solid ground and a strong pair of arms after too long on a ridiculous carnival ride. This. _This_ is something that I know. Something that I can _do_. “But I can. And I dare say that I’m pretty fucking good at it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First up: in the matter of Alistair v. Loghain the people have ruled in the favor of _Alistair_. I'm excited :) 
> 
> Second: This falls under the category of "frivolous" but... I have a semi concrete idea of what Varric's nickname for Avery will end up being but it's going to take him a bit to get there. I'd love to hear some suggestions for him to try before then. Bonus points if you have a specific reason for him to call her that. Anything goes.
> 
> Third: In the next chapter... Cullen Stanton Rutherford. Amen.


	6. Tastes Like Chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord, I know I said updates would be irregular but I still feel guilty for not updating for an entire month. Hopefully October will be better to this story than September was!
> 
> This chapter also ended up significantly longer than expected - and my muse got pissy when I tried to trim it down a bit - so here is the first chunk of it. The rest will be up as another chapter in a day or two. (Also, this also makes me a lying liar face and you won't actually get Cullen until the next bit.)
> 
> As always, I love and cherish every comment and kudo. Totally makes my day, even though I'm absolutely hopeless at replying to them.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of familiar sensations. Turns out that cleaning and cooking is the same from one world to the next and that realization – made about the time I’m trying not to gag as I dispose of various half liquefied and/or fuzzy food items – is a gentle balm on nerves that I hadn’t let myself realize were badly frayed. Ellana, for all that she can’t cook, is a hard worker and content to let me boss her around. Though whether that’s just her bowing to my self-proclaimed cooking prowess or an act of self-preservation in the wake of my frantic activity and soft singing I’m not really sure.

 Bit of both, probably.

The pantry is decently stocked, as far as I can tell, and given that most of is just sitting in barrels and boxes out in the open I’m pretty fucking impressed that some enterprising soul hasn’t waltzed off with it yet. Too busy dodging all the demons, I guess. I spend an inordinate amount of time rubbing herbs between my fingers, slicing slivers off of vegetables, and popping grains and flours into my mouth and nearly choke on something that tastes like barely when Varric saunters into the room and asks what I’m doing.

“Tasting,” I mutter when my airway is clear. “Not from around here, remember?”

He gives me an odd sort of look. “Are things really that different?”

I think of the bits of this world, this _Thedas_ , that I’ve caught glimpses of. I think of the landscapes that could have belonged on Earth. I think of tea and the way the soap bubbles between my hands and the way the clothes feel on my body. I think of the stitches aching in my arm and the goddamn cigarette that Varric had cradled between his fingers. I think of the language that I can understand but not read and the fear that I can see and the firm press of lips against my own. I think, too, of demons and magic and dwarves and elves and a thousand other fucking things that I won’t realize are there until suddenly they just _are_.

“No,” I tell him quietly. “And yes.”

I drag my fingers through a sack of dried, pinkish colored beans and don’t think anymore.

 

* * *

 

Varric is nowhere near as industrious as Ellana though still far more domestic than I would have thought having watched him scramble across rocks and rubble and turning demons into fucking pincushions. He doesn’t touch the dirty dishes or the rotten food but he has no qualms about loading up the wood stove and lighting it – or rifling through the shelved containers until he finds what proves to be a box of tea.

His earlier offering notwithstanding, the man can make a damn good cup of tea.

While I’m busy beating the ever loving shit out of a ball of dough he disappears, taking Ellana with him. I’m not sure how long he’s gone. Enough to replicate the bread dough situation a handful of times – the final batch reduced to being caressed like a quivering lover instead of punching bag – and sip my way through the entire pot of tea. When they return their faces are red from the cold and their clothing dusted with bits of dirt and snow but their hands are full of limp bodies.

 “Nugs,” Varric answers the unspoken _what the fuck_ that is written on my face.

“Nugs?” I repeat faintly, staring at the dead animals. They look a bit like a rabbit. Kind of. I tip my head to the side and distantly note that they’ve already been gutted.  “They’re…” I search blindly for something beyond _gross_ , or _fucking weird_ as I stare at what appears to be the poor bastard child of an unholy union between a rabbit and a piglet. Hairless. And with little tiny baby hands. “… something,” I finally mutter and Varric laughs.

“They’re blind, plentiful, and stupid,” he says and drops them on the far end of the workspace. He affords Bianca a great deal more care and sets her tenderly down on the small little table he’d found somewhere and pulled up next to the woodstove with a pair of mismatched chairs.

“They are one of the first things we are taught to hunt, when we are young,” Ellana agrees as her nugs join Varric’s. “Mahanon says that if you can’t catch a nug then you are too dumb to live.” She wrinkles her nose slightly and leans her own weapon – a longbow that is nearly as tall as she is and a leather quiver half full of arrows – in the corner.

My eyes widen. “That… seems a little harsh.”

Varric snorts. “Not really. All you have to do is find the little blighters. Once you’re in the same space as them I daresay we could tie your hands behind your back and blindfold you and you’d still manage to catch one of them.”

I stare at the slightly creepy carcasses, not buying it. My hunting experience hovers right at zero and is comprised entirely of stalking flies around the house with a fly swatter or a folded sheaf of papers. The little bastards are fast.

“They have no sense of self preservation. Only thing keeping them from disappearing is the fact that they reproduce like… nugs. They’re not completely stupid, though,” Ellana rattles on, pushing a flyaway strand of her inky hair out of her eyes, “I’ve heard from other clans that people keep them as pets...”

“ _Pets_?!?”

Oh, fuck no. Nope, nope, nopity-nope.

They’re weird enough as something that I might possibly _eat_. There is no fucking way I’d let those little baby hands crawl all over me. That’s the stuff of a low budget and disgustingly disturbing horror movie.

“Mmm. They’ve always been popular in Orzammar but they were the height of fashion in Orlais after the Blight. For a couple of years everyone walked around with nugs dressed in fine silks and little masks tucked under their arm. Knife?”

I stare at the hand held out towards me for a moment before selecting a knife from the selection beneath the worktable and passing it over. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Clothes – I can get dressing your pet in clothes, though I think silk is taking things a bit far. Masks, though. That’s just fucking weird.

“I could, but I’d be lying.”

“… but, _masks_?” I ask, taking up a nug of my own, trying to imagine how a mask would actually stay on the poor thing’s face as I begin to break it down. It’s not much different than butchering a rabbit. Or a chicken. Or all other manner of small animals. Once everything is dead and laying on a cutting board it’s all remarkably the same.

There’s a message in there, somewhere, I’m sure.

“Orlesians are obsessed with masks. The whole country is a bloody metaphor.”

“I imagine it’s also to hide the eyes. Creators know, the poor things don’t have much in the way of looks.” Ellana dangles a third lifeless nug in front of my face in blatant illustration of her point. Not that I need it. In death they’re as ugly as sin but I doubt that life improves that situation overmuch.

Poor little bastards.

“Lady Nightingale – _Leliana_ – is Orlesian,” Varric remarks after a long moment filled only with the sounds of knives moving beneath skin, across sinew, and wiggling between joints.

I blink.

“Did she have a nug?”

I try to picture it and I can’t. Leliana seems entirely too badass for the mental images that Varric’s painted inside my fucking head.

The dwarf in question stares into space, tapping the knife thoughtfully.

“You know, I think she might have,” he finally says. “But I’m not certain.”

I nod and file that information away. I should probably find some way to find out Leliana’s thoughts on the edibility of nugs because I have no doubt – _no doubts whatsofuckingever –_ that if I piss her off she’ll turn me inside out and serve me up as an all you can eat buffet.  

Nug, it turns out, tastes like a very sweet, slightly stringy chicken.

 

* * *

 

I make the trip up to the chantry alone.

It’s dark by the time I reassure Ellana – again, for Christ’s sake – that she’ll be perfectly fine handing out bowls of the freshly made nug stew and that it is damn unlikely that she’ll manage to poison someone. Varric’s more content to stay behind, perched at the corner table with the remnants of his own meal and a bottle of whiskey that he’s pilfered from the locked cabinet behind the bar. Judging by the smirk that lit up his face when he dug it out from behind a handful of of half empty bottles it might actually be half decent.

I hope there’s still some left in the bottle by the time I come back.

It’s cold, so fucking cold out here under the stars. I shiver beneath the weight of the coat pulled around my shoulders and tighten my grip on the basket held carefully in my hands. The chantry isn’t far from _The Singing Maiden_ \- just down the lane, up a small set of stone laid steps, and across the snow covered courtyard.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Theoretically.

I can’t decide which terrifies me more: the icy steps or the treacherous expanse between the steps and the chantry door.

_I will not slip. I will not slip. I will not slip._

Oh god.

The main hall of the chantry isn’t exactly warm, especially in comparison to the heated cocoon of the tavern kitchen that I’d – foolishly, because I’m an idiot – abandoned but at least it’s out of the wind. That alone is a massive improvement.

I slip down the length of the hall and knock lightly on the door at the back.

“Can I…oh! Lady Williams! I wasn’t expecting you. Was there something you needed?”

Josephine smiles at me from inside the room. She’s in a lovely, rich purple today that makes her skin practically glow and brings out the faint green flecks in her eyes.

“Call me Avery,” I tell her. “ _Please_. Lady Williams is just… no. _Fuck_ no.” I shudder a little. I’m not a lady. I don’t even play one on TV and while I love _Pride and Prejudice_ as much as the next gal I have no doubt that I would be completely screwed if I fell into a Jane Austen novel.

If nothing else my proclivity for telling people to fuck off would ruin my chances in the first five minutes.

So, no. No angsty regency romance for me. I am perfectly content to be wearing worn, flour dusted clothing and wondering at my chances of there being any of that whiskey left when I go back to hiding out in the humid heat of the kitchen.

Which brings me back to the important stuff.

“I…uh… wanted to say thank you. For yesterday.” Smooth, Avery. Real smooth. I sigh and hold up the basket. “I brought food. Figured you’ll have been too busy to eat properly.”

Josephine stares at me for a single, long beat of my heart and then the surprise on her face melts into a gracious smile. “Oh! Thank you! You’re right, of course, the amount of work that we have to do is atrocious and…”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Josie, let her in,” Leliana’s voice is a mix of exasperation and steel and the woman in front of me blinks in surprise. “I need to speak with her anyway.”

I blink in surprise. Speak with me? Hadn’t she already spoken with me enough already? It’d certainly been closer to dawn than not by the time I’d left last night.

And I didn’t have Varric with me this time either.

Fuck.

“Do come in Lady Williams,” Josephine opens the door in welcome and gestures me into the room.

“Avery,” I correct bluntly. “ _Please_.”

Josephine eyes me for a moment and then inclines her head in a gracious movement. “Then you must call me Josephine,” she declares, which is good because I’d be utter shit at remember to address anyone as _Lady_ This or _Lady_ That. Especially because I’ve already been calling her Josephine in my head. Also, I’m not entirely sure what Josephine’s surname is. Oh, I’m pretty sure she told me at some point last night but fuck if I can actually remember it.

I’ll have to ask Varric when I get back to the _Maiden_. If I get back.

Ah, pessimism. It's good to see you my old friend.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Josephine says. “You are correct. We have not eaten and we are most certainly due for a break. I’ll just fetch some tea for us, shall I?” I open my mouth to correct her. I have no intention of staying. None. Zip. Nada. I just came to bring food. A peace offering, as it were. A _thank you for not killing me on sight_ gift. It’s the least I can do, really. But Josephine has already vanished in a swish of amethyst silks.

I sigh and set the basket on the table.

“Lady Nightingale,” I greet respectfully, dredging up the ghosts of manners past.

Leliana spares me a glance, quirking her delicate eyebrow.  “Do you know how you address me?” she asks and if her face wasn’t a smooth, stone mask I might have thought that I’d amused her.

I shrug and begin pulling items out of the basket. A loaf of crusty bread. A stack of ceramic bowls. A handful of spoons. “With respect, I hope,” I mutter, carefully placing the smallish pot of stew on the tabletop. “It is what Varric called you and I figured you didn’t want me to use your name, seeing as you wouldn’t tell me the damn thing.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I stifle the urge to bang my head against the table and cross my arms defensively across my chest instead.

“Sorry,” I murmur, looking away from the judging arch of the eyebrow.

“I have no objection to you using my name,” the scary woman explains as she gathers scattered papers into her hands, “but names have power and I wished to determine whether you were friend or foe before I gave you mine.”

I blink.

“And have you decided?”

“I do not believe you are the enemy here,” she says slowly. “If I did, I would not allow you to wander the village. Indeed, I would not have let you leave the chantry last night.”

I blink.

Well that’s… oddly comforting, actually.

Fuck, but I’m going to need a few therapy sessions to go over that one. You know, if I actually participated in legitimate therapy instead of the cookie dough variety.

“Whether you are a friend is a different matter entirely. Judgement on the matter will be held suspended until I have more evidence. Seems fair, no?”

“You do not strike me as a woman who is overly concerned with _fair_ ,” I observe automatically and Jesus fucking Christ I need to shut up. Or leave, because apparently I cannot be trusted to keep my goddamn mouth _shut_. Not that that’s anything new but one would think that I’d manage to show at least a little self-restraint in this new world. Existence. Place.

Oh god, I’m so fucked.

“You really are feisty, aren’t you?”

“I kind of have to be. It’s not like I have a whole lot else going for me,” I mutter with a vague motion at my body. “I’m not exactly made of terrifying material.”

_Oh god, Avery, just shut up,_ I scream inside my head. _Just shut the fuck up!_

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Leliana murmurs after a moment. “The most terrifying woman I’ve ever known wasn’t much bigger than you.”

I snort. “Right.”

Leliana turns away, the smoothness of her face turning into something else as she stares at the wall beyond my head. “She survived a massacre, raised an army, ended a civil war, crowned a queen, and brought down an archdemon,” she intones quietly and there’s suddenly so much emotion in the redhead’s voice that it is a fight to not skirt around the table and gather her in my arms and squeeze the stuffing out of her.

I don’t, but I want to, so I pull a few apples out of the basket and let them join the rest of the food.

“She sounds amazingly badass,” I finally offer honestly. I want to ask what happened to her, to this terrifying woman that makes Leliana’s mask break. I don’t, though. I’m not that stupid. Yet.

“She was.” Leliana takes a deep breath and I busy myself slicing the apples into thick wedges to give her a moment of privacy. “You know,” she begins a few apples later, “when they told me that you had taken over _the Maiden_ I wasn’t sure I believed them.”

“Oh?” I pause and dare to give her a glance. She’s composed once more, the sharp vulnerability wiped from her face. “Why the fuck not?”

“You are a newcomer to a world that is, by your own words, completely different than the one you lived in. Taking over the kitchens of the local tavern and feeding anybody that wanders within shouting distance is… not the course of action I would have expected.”

I scoff quietly. “And what sort of actions would have been appropriate?” I ask flatly. “Should I have done a bit more crying? Maybe had a fit of hysterics on the chantry step? Treated you lot like the goddamn enemy?” I shake my head viciously, visions of fainting damsels and conquistadors dueling in my head.

Oh, god.

I’m not going to make everyone sick, am I? Fuck, but I hope they already have syphilis here. Not that I have syphilis but… _Later_ , I tell myself as I sweep the dizzying rise of panic into the every growing box of things that I will, my hand to god, freak out about later.

“No, though I would not be surprised if it came to that,” Leliana sighs, piercing me with a look that very effectively pins me to place. “I guess I expected you to rest – you were in a battle yesterday. In a rather delicious set of heels, no less.”

I blink at the definitive thread of admiration in the other woman’s voice, though whether it’s for me or for my footwear I’m not quite sure. Probably the latter. “Don’t remind me,” I mutter, wincing. _How badly my fucking feet hurt_ is another one of those things shoved into the _I am not thinking about this_ box. Right along with… just about everything, actually.

Which is probably not very healthy.

Course, neither is eating an entire bowl of brownie batter but I’ve never let that stop me before, so…

Leliana spares me a ghost of a smile. “Maker, it was quite impressive. Reminds me of parties in Orlais. The intrigue. The costumes…” she shakes her head, dispelling the wistful look from her face. “Anyway, I rather expected that you’d rest, observe, and quite possibly asking a lot of questions. Instead, I get reports of Varric and a young dalish woman hunting nugs down by the lake and of the Herald’s Mistress suddenly setting up camp in the tavern and feeding the hungry.”

I admit, Leliana’s suggestion sounds slightly more reasonable than hysterics and unintentional germ warfare. Still, it’s vaguely insulting to think that I’d be able to rest, blind to the despair and destruction around me.

“I couldn’t just sit around twiddling my thumbs like some nervous Nancy,” I retort. “It’s suffocating out there. People are… everyone is… _fuck_ , it doesn’t matter that I’m this fucking close to a nervous breakdown because at least I’m still functioning and everyone out there needed…. Something. I needed something. I needed to help and … who the fuck is calling me the Herald’s Mistress? I have been here twenty-four goddamn hours and screwing someone has not exactly crossed my mind as a suitable form of coping!”

Yet.

It had not crossed my mind as a suitable form of coping _yet_.

Something that has now been remedied, courtesy of this conversation.

Fuck.

_Exactly_.

I facepalm. Firmly. With feeling.

“And who the hell is the Herald?” I mutter under my breath. If I’m going to be suddenly painted as someone’s tasty side piece I should probably at least know who they are.

I also should probably just send Ellana the next time I’m struck with a sudden sense of goodwill and the need to mother hen the every loving shit out of someone.

I also should probably not assume that Ellana will indefinitely be available to run my errands for me. Or that she’d want to.

God, Varric better not drink all of that whiskey.

“That is what the people are calling Trevelyan,” Leliana finally responds and since I’m unwilling to remove the flat of my hand from my face I can’t tell if she’s actually as amused as she sounds. Rather less, I think, catching the undercurrent of worry as she says his name. “ _The Herald of Andraste_.”

There’s a weight in the way she says it, a solemn heaviness that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Who’s Andraste?”

That, it appears, is the question to ask.

“Holy Andraste is the Bride of the Maker and…” I top her with a raised hand. Not the one slapped across my face.

The names may be different and confusing but the fervor is the same. “So like the Virgin Mary if God had put a ring on it instead of op-ing for the wham, bam, thank you ma’am route.” I sigh. Heavily. “Absolutely-fucking-amazing.” I take a deep breath and finally remove the hand from my face. “I’m just going to save us a long conversation and go out on a limb and say that this Andraste is some terribly important religious figure and I’ll get the rest of the story later.” From Varric, probably. At this rate I’m going to run the man dumb. “And… the general population is calling Max her Herald because….what? He made the big fucking whole in the sky stop spitting demons in their breakfast?”

“Yes.”

In absence of whiskey I pop an apple slice into my mouth and munch on it determinately. It’s a little mealy but beggars can’t be choosers and really _mealy_ is the worst thing I can say about it. The actual flavor is… fuck, but this would make good applesauce. Or an upside down applesauce cake. With whiskey caramel sauce. Or rum. Do they have rum on Thedas?

When my mouth is clear I ask bluntly, “Is he?”

Leliana lifts her shoulder in an artful shrug. “I don’t know,” she admits softly. “But he can close rifts. He stabilized the Breach. No one else has been able to do these things.”

A fact that apparently makes him some divinely blessed… prophet? Leader? Weapon? Something.

“And they’re calling me his mistress _why_?”

“Because not all the men at the Temple yesterday were mine and soldiers gossip more than Orlesian housewives,” she growls unhappily and I take a step back, holding my hands out in a gesture of goodwill.

“Hey, I thought we established that _he_ kissed _me…_ don’t give me scary eyes like this is all my fault! _”_

“Oh, I can see you told her,” Josephine’s accented voice wraps around the room like a curtain of silk as walks through the open door, a tea service sitting on the tray held between her hands. “Thank you Jim, that will be all,” she adds, dismissing the blue and gray clad man holding open the door. I think it might be the guy from yesterday but I’m not sure. Regardless, he salutes with a fist to his heart and shuts the door behind him. “Please Lady… _Avery_ ,” I snort because I’m not sure that’s much an improvement over Lady Williams but at least she’s trying, “Won’t you sit and join us? We obviously have much to discuss and the day has rather gotten away from us, I’m afraid.”

And really, what choice do I have?

I pop another slice of apple in mouth and sit my ass down.

 

* * *

 

Over bowls of stew – Leliana did, in fact, have a pet nug at one point but she seems to have no qualms with daintily spooning the meal into her mouth, thank god – thick slices of bread and a platter of mealy apple slices and small wedges of sharp cheese I slowly lose my mind. I mean, it had been bad enough last night with the whole _this is not earth_ realization and this morning’s _nope, still not a dream_ epiphany hadn’t been much better, but this is some fresh hell all on its own.

For starters between the two of them they absolutely steamroll any protestations about getting the whole Andraste story from Varric. And, after hearing it, I can see their point. Kind of. Near as I can tell the Chantry is more or less the equivalent of the medieval Catholic church and very, very deeply entrenched in not only politics but… everything. Still, I can’t help but think that Varric would have told the whole thing better than Leliana, who is prone to rapt positively lyrical about the whole thing.

Not that I’m stupid enough to point that out, however.

The explanation about _why_ everyone is calling Max the Herald of Andraste is significantly shorter and delivered in clipped, emotionless sentences and I end up pouring Josephine another cup of tea while she cries into a soft handkerchief that she’s pulled from god knows where. I don’t blame her. Fuck, I don’t even _know_ any of the people that died when the Temple exploded and the Breach appeared but I can feel the loss of them, can see it reflected in the tears and the careful masks of the women with me.

“So Max is a Big Fucking Deal. Like the Pope. No… like a saint? Prophet?” The thought is disconcerting. I may know shit about history but I know that stuff usually ends badly for those sorts of people. I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s a Big Deal. He’s not only the only one that can apparently stop this but those that have seen it happen are convinced that he’s doing so by some divinely invested power.” I sigh and scrub my hand over my eyes. “And if your Chantry is anything like the churches I grew up with then the idea of a such a figure having a mistress is a fucking disaster. So what is the best way to approach this? Would my denial be sufficient or do you want some type of formal statement? Or should I just ignore it?”

The two women exchange a pointed glance and, surprisingly, it is Josephine that speaks. “Actually,” she murmurs rather delicately, “we were rather hoping that you would encourage it.”

I blink.

“What?”

I blink again.

“You want me to _what_?” I stare at them. “Have you lost your fucking minds? I don’t even know the man. He doesn’t know me. We…he… you can’t fake that level of intimacy!”

I don't squeak. Much.

“You did well enough in the Temple,” Leliana drawls with a damnable quirk of her eyebrow.

I have the decency to blush at that because, well. Damn. But still.

“One kiss does not make intimacy,” I insist stubbornly.

“It’s not just the kiss that they’re gossiping about,” the other woman retorts bluntly. “There is nothing about your behavior yesterday – yours or his – that suggests that you have never met each other…”

“… we _haven’t_ …”

Leliana holds up a hand. “So you’ve said and I find myself inclined to believe you, even if things appear otherwise, yes?”

“What we are trying to say is that the semblance of such intimacy is already there and that it would be prudent to take advantage of it,” Josephine murmurs and nibbles at a piece of cheese. “Denying the claims at this point would only further spread the gossip as well as make it look like we are trying to sanitize Trevelyan’s reputation.”

“Things will be hard enough without adding fuel to the fire. With the Divine and most of high ranking members of the Chantry gone there is little uniting leadership. It is not just the local clerics that will be grabbing for power,” Leliana picks up. “If we have any hope of closing the Breach and bringing the Divine’s killer to justice we simply cannot afford to waste our time with damaging slander.”

I raise an eyebrow because _really?_ Telling the world that I’m the tasty side bit of religious figure doesn’t count as slander?

“Well, more damaging slander,” Leliana amends after a heavy pause.

“The position is not without benefit to you, either,” Josephine adds gently.

I give her a pointed look. “Don’t tell me – Max is a _spectacularly_ good fuck.”

Josephine turns a rather interesting shade of red. It clashes _horribly_ with her dress.

“That’s not what I meant!” she cries defensively. “I would never presume to… to…!” I let her sputter for a few minutes before I ask flatly,

“Well then what _did_ you mean?”

It takes her another minute but Josephine rallies, a refined calm slipping back over her features as she takes a sip of her tea. “It would integrate you into our world,” she finally says, carefully. “We… we cannot spare any attention right now to figure out how you’re here, or why, but there are others – others with distance from the Breach to give them a sense of security – who would more interested in your presence. And what you might be able to tell them.”

Oh, Jesus.

I can feel the blood flow straight out of my cheeks and into the pit of my gut where it roils dangerously.

“I see you grasp the gravity of the situation,” Leliana murmurs and I jerk my head sharply.

Fuck, but I do.

I won’t be treated like a fucking lab animal. I _won’t_. I’ll die first.

Oh god.

I’m too young to die.

_You must leave,_ Solas’ voice whispers in my head and perhaps he’s right.

Except the thought of leaving… _this_ – of leaving this weird little room at the back of a church or the weird little kitchen full of mostly familiar food smells and the scratching of Varric’s quill – makes me want to vomit all over the table.

I don’t.

But I want to.

“Oh god,” I mutter under my breath.

“Being known as Trevelyan’s mistress will make you just another person caught in the upheaval,” Josephine reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “We’re not suggesting that you have to… sleep with him. But being associated with him will give whatever story we tell about credibility. It will make you part of our world.”

I stare at her and try really hard not to hyperventilate.

I may, or may not, be successful.

And it’s not because the idea of actually being Max’s mistress – or even pretending to – is really all that distasteful. Honestly. Because who hasn’t faked a relationship to save a friend from creepy flirters or overbearing relatives? So it’s not that. Not really.

I’m just really still hung up on the idea of being interrogated about the possibility of alien invasion.

Or something.

“And what about you?” I finally make myself ask.

“I already asked my questions,” Leliana says firmly. “Remember?”

I take a deep, shaking breath, and nod. “Yeah. I remember.”

Not enemies, but not friends either.

Not yet.


	7. Caught in the Riptide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter one Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Stage Right.
> 
> As promised.

We speak little after that. Not that there’s much left to speak about but my legs are shaking too badly beneath the cover of the massive table to simply get up and run. Besides, apparently Josephine wants to show me to the house I’ll be sharing with Max and I’m torn between rolling my eyes and giggling hysterically at the idea.

I drink tea and answer questions about my shoes instead.

I’m pretty sure I’ve drunk more tea in the last twenty-four hours than I usually do in a week. Which, considering my normal tea intake, is saying something.

I also promise to bring Leliana my heels during my next spare moment.

The slamming of the door against the wall as it swings open is enough to make me jump, nerves still rattled from visions of being dissected dancing through my head, and I manage in typical graceful fashion to spill my tea. Brilliant. I growl a little and dab at the damp spot on my leg with the edge of my coat as a man sweeps through the door, kicking it shut behind him as he runs a hand through the golden tangle of his hair.

He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever had the privilege to lay eye on. Rugged and powerful with a slinking, rolling sort of grace that makes me think of a lion. Or maybe that’s just because of the furred lining of his cluck brushing up against the tawny expanse of his skin and highlighting the line of his jaw.

“Oh, _fuck me_ ,” I whimper under my breath.

“…Rylen reports that the immediate area around Haven is clear. No sight or sign of demons in the past day, though we’ll continue to post guards at the Temple. We’ve had a few Templars drift in from the Hint…I beg your pardon?”

Shit.

Apparently I hadn’t been as quiet as I thought.

Either that or the man has the hearing of a bat.

And eyes of molten gold, apparently.

It’s really, _really_ ridiculously unfair.

I choke on my tongue and the last of my tea manages to splash out of my cup and across my hand, making me yelp.

“Nothing. S-sorry!” I stammer out, well aware of the fact that my face is lit up like a bonfire. “I just… the tea… it’s, uh, really hot.” I swallow roughly. “Really, _really_ hot,” I repeat faintly.

Leliana chokes.

The very handsome – and very tall, Jesus, the top of my head probably doesn’t even come up to his arm pit – man is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head, a faint brush of pink staining his cheeks.

“Commander, this is Avery Williams,” Josephine introduces demurely, something that sounds suspiciously like laughter tickling at the back of her voice. “Avery, this is Commander Cullen Rutherford.”

“You’re the other one.”

I blink at the growl that rolls through the room.

“I’m the other… what?”

The Commander – and, _Jesus take the wheel_  – crosses his arms over his chest and pins me with a pointed glare. It’s not quite on par with Leliana and certainly not up to Solas’ standard, but I find myself frozen beneath it all the same, the tea cup shaking in my hand until I give up and put it down on the table. “You’re the other one that came out of the Fade.”

I blink.

“Oh. Yes. That, um, would be me.”

I don’t spread my hands and go _ta-da!_ But it’s a close thing.

Probably too close.

“Are you a mage?”

“Am I a…” I blink, stuttering off into silence as I stare at him, eyes narrowing. “ _Seriously_? Why the fuck does everyone keep asking me that?”

The Commander frowns. “Maker’s breath, you fell out of the _Fade_!” He says, like that’s supposed to explain everything.

It doesn’t.

But the fact that he – and everybody else, apparently – thinks it does makes me pinch the bridge of my nose, take a deep breath, and exhale slowly to the count of ten. 

“I’m not a mage. _Not a mage_. No magic. Zip. None. Nada. What do you want me to do? Shall I recite the Lord’s Prayer for you? Jump into the lake and see if I sink?” I don’t particularly _want_ to. I’m pretty sure the damn thing is frozen all the way across but if it’ll stop everyone from giving me the side eye…

“Jump in the lake?” The Commander repeats, eyebrows shooting up as he stares at me.  “Why would you jump in the lake? You’d bloody freeze to death.”

I shrug, “Because it’s a way to test for witches?”

“A way to test for…” he runs his hand through his hair again. It’s significantly longer than it looks, the tight corkscrews elongating to a handful of inches beneath the pull of his fingers. I want to touch it. “Are you saying that you’re a witch?”

Oh, for the love of…

“No, you _dumbass_ , I’m saying that I’m _not_!”

“But you came out of the Fade!” he roars.

“You keep saying that like it means something!” I roar back.

“That’s because it _does_ , you ignorant wench!”

“Ignorant wench?” I screech indignantly. “ _Ignorant wench…?_ You _motherfucking_ son of a…” I slam my lips together and exhale so harshly that it hurts. The Commander’s fist tightens to the point that I can hear the leather of his glove creaking in the sudden, thudding silence of the room. “You are aware, _Commander,_ ” I ask flatly, “that I am not from… _around here_?”

I can see Leliana nod out of the corner of my eye just as the rugged blonde jerks his jaw in assent. “I have been told the story. A rather fantastical tale.”

I snort darkly. “I’m sure. Because a giant fucking hole in the sky and demons waltzing everywhere is so _completely_ mundane.”

I can’t be sure but I think, _I think_ , that the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s had to tell beneath the weight of his death glare.

I sigh. “Look,” I begin after I’ve taken a few more deep breaths. “There isn’t a ‘ _Fade_ ’” – complete with air quotes – “where I come from. I don’t know what it is or how the hell I got there – I am, of course, assuming it was the blurry brown place?” Again Leliana nods in the corner of my vision. “One moment I was on my way home and the next minute I’m there. And I walked. And walked. And _walked_ – in fucking heels, no less – until I found the rift thing and fell through it with all the grace of a drunk poodle. I have zero idea why that’s such a big deal. It was lonely and boring and moderately awful.”

The Commander stares at me for several long minutes, long enough for me to begin to twitch nervously beneath his gaze, before he tells me, “Demons come from the Fade.”

I blink.

That… seems pretty obvious, now that I think on it. Still.

“I believe we have established that I am _not_ , in fact, a demon.”

“That we can tell,” he snaps back, eyes flashing.

I don’t roll my eyes. I don’t. And the effort to do so is actually painful.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake… I know I’m no delicate beauty but I don’t look anything like the things ya’all were killing yesterday.”

The Commander does a quick once over and it’s so clinical that it hurts a little.

“Satisfied?” I drawl, glaring. “Or do I need to slap you like I did Max?” I’d do it. I’d have to go up on my fucking tip toes just to reach, but I’d do it.

Or am doing it, apparently.

Bugger.

The Commander’s fingers snap around my wrist and I let out a high, startled keen at the touch. His other hand catches my elbow as I go down, my knees buckling beneath the feverish heat of his fingers pressed to my skin.

It hurts. It hurts so much that my stomach heaves against the restraint of my ribs as my head lolls back and our eyes lock. It’s not a physical pain. His touch is light, if firm, the rough callused surface of his fingers gentle as they simultaneously restrain me and keep me from collapsing in an inelegant heap on the floor. No, the pain is a pressure, a rolling blackness that swamps over me like a wave; a riptide that swirls and pulls and drags me out to drown in it. I can’t breathe, can’t blink, can’t let out the cry building behind the trap of my teeth – all of it swamped beneath the pressure washing over me, a sharp blinding ache that I can feel all the way down to my bones.

I sway, caught in the thrall of the burnished gold of his gaze, my own eyesight gone hazy with the pain pounding in my head. It feels like someone is trying to dig my eyes out of my fucking head with a dull spoon but I can’t close them, can’t look away as a cold, clammy sweat springs into existence on my skin. Vaguely I’m aware of something cool sweeping across me, wrapping around me like a small explosion and leaving the smell of starlight and artificially sweet vanilla clinging to my nostrils.

“ _Commander_!” Leliana sounds… offended, maybe? Surprised, definitely.

“It’s not the demons I can see that worry me,” the officer in question growls and I’m suddenly not the only one swaying. The Commander wavers once, twice, and then settles once more, rocking back on his heels as all the blood suddenly drains from his face and his tawny hair goes dark with sweat. “Not  really. I’ll not have an abomination springing up in the middle of our camp.”

The shock of it makes me blink.

_They will name you abomination and they will not stop until you are dead._

“What’s an abomination?” I hear myself ask as I stare up at him, still neatly caught in the grip of his hands and the rush of sensations pummeling against my skin. It feels like my heart is about to beat right out of my chest, like the blood in my veins has been transmuted into liquid fire.

“A monster,” the Commander swallows and I can feel his hand shaking against the tender skin of my wrist, “Someone who has been possessed – willingly or forcibly – by a demon. Because of their connection to the Fade mages are the most susceptible but it can happen to anyone. Not even Templars are safe.” His jaw tightens and just for a second I can see something there in the black of his eye. A broken tower. Rooms full of monsters. Bloodied bodies thrown like rushes upon the floor.

Something in my chest hurts so badly that tears prick at the corner of my eyes.

I blink.

“Oh,” I whisper.

“ _COMMANDER_!”

The sharp bite of Leliana’s voice is enough to break the connection and we both go stumbling like a pair of drunks. I catch myself on the edge of the table, gripping it until I can feel fucking splinters driving into my hand and the Commander goes down in a rattle of metal and a violent outburst of air. At least he lands in a chair. For a moment we are silent except for the great gasping inhalations of breath as we stare at each other. Now that we’re no longer touching the black tide of pain is gone and I can breathe without feeling like my chest is going to explode or that my breakfast will suddenly reemerge to decorate my shoes. It’s gone but I can still feel it, a gentle tugging that slips around the edges of my consciousness, a shadowy glimpse that I just can’t catch.

“Forgive me,” the Commander finally forces out as he tips his head backwards and his eyes flutter shut, long golden lashes lying against the still-too-white expanse of his flesh. “I had to be sure. I couldn’t…” he swallows, harshly. “Maker’s breath, I can’t do it again.”

I want to ask, but I don’t. I don’t because even from a handful of feet away I can still see his hands shaking and convulsing as he clenches them into fists over the lines of his thighs. I don’t because I’m pretty sure that I wasn’t the only one that had felt what just happened. Instead I just jerk my head, making some vague noise of… forgiveness, I guess, and rub at my arms to dispel the static charge I can feel jumping and tingling against my skin.

“Satisfied, Commander?”

He nods, eyes still closed. “For now.”

Josephine takes a deep breath. “I know we’re running low but I’ll go fetch a…”

“No!”

I blink at the vehemence in his voice.

“No?” Josephine asks, her eyes going wider than a pair of dinner plates.

“No,” the collapsed Commander repeats firmly.

“But…”

“Josephine,” Leliana interrupts gently, “Why don’t you show Avery to her new accommodations? The Commander and I have a few things to discuss.”

Something that sounds very much like a whimper sneaks out of the Commander’s mouth before he presses his lips together, his jaw tightening as he shakily runs a hand through his hair. Not that I blame him. The icy look on Leliana’s face is nothing short of terrifying. Poor bastard.

“Of course,” Josephine agrees demurely, though you’d have to be blind to miss the _We will be talking about this later_ look that she gives Leliana. “Avery?”

Fantastic. It’s like I’m five all over again and the adults don’t want me hearing their conversation.  Fuckers.

 “Sure,” I murmur out loud. “Just let me…” I motion at the remains of the meal spread across the table. The stuff is easily gathered and packed, disappearing back into the depths of the basket in a flurry of folded napkins and the gentle clink of crockery. Hesitating for only a moment I quickly shear a thin slice off the heel of bread and place the rest of the cheese on it before folding it in half. “Here,” I murmur, turning to the man who still sounds like he’s stuck in a Lamaze class. He startles beneath the touch of my fingers and for a moment both of us eye the offending appendages warily as they sit against the warm wool of his sleeve. But, when nothing happens – praise be to the flying spaghetti monster -, his gaze slips to the impromptu sandwich resting in my hand and his skin promptly turns a little green.

“I…”

“I know,” I interrupt because frankly I can still feel my own stomach trying to make a break for freedom. “Humor me,” I say with a quirk of my lips. “It will settle your stomach.” And hopefully keep him from passing out from low blood sugar. Or shock. Or pure exhaustion. Fuck knows how long it’s been since the poor man ate something.

Likely a while, if the way Leliana and Josephine had tucked away food had been any indicator.

“Thank you.” The gruff words stop me at the door and I turn just enough to look back at the Commander, who has managed to haul himself upright so that he looks like he’s actually sitting instead of lying prone over a chair.

We’re not touching, not even close, but I can feel the tide tugging at the pit of my stomach all the same.

“Go slowly,” I finally caution. “And for fuck’s sake, drink some tea.”

I’m not sure but I think the corner of his lip twitches.

Regardless, I feel his eyes on my back long after Josephine has shut the door – both sets – and led us out into the night.

 

* * *

 

 “See? Found it!” I wave my arm at the stocky figure watching from the middle of the street and I’m pretty damn sure he rolls his eyes. Can’t tell for sure though. There’s no such thing as street lighting in Haven.

“Go to bed, Wiggles!”

“Fuck you, Varric!” I shout back and the dwarf’s laughter hangs pleasantly in the air as I turn back to the door. The armored man standing guard near the door narrows his eyes at me in what is clearly an unsubtle wish to wash my mouth out with soap. “And fuck you too, Sir Judgy McJudgerson,” I growl with a smirk.

The guard turns and interesting shade of red and I take the moment to slip through the door and bolt it behind me.

“Fuck,” I whisper softly and let my head fall back with a gentle _thump_.

It’s warm in the little house. Not as warm as the kitchen in the tavern but warmer than drafty, cavernous expanse of the chantry. God bless fireplaces.

Of course, the whiskey burning away in my stomach helps too.

Sighing, I rub my hand across my eyes and move over to the bundle sitting on the desk. Josephine had placed it there when she had shown me the house earlier. It’s a small little thing, barely larger than the tool shed sitting in my backyard, and conveniently located straight down from the chantry and just across the main thoroughfare from the _Maiden._ Josephine had wanted to give me a grand tour but I can’t imagine that it’d take more than five seconds – and I’d told her so, refusing to even step foot in the door and merely holding it for her while she set some things down. Truth is I hadn’t wanted to come in and had gone straight back to the kitchen after a few more minutes of waving off Josephine’s polite apologies and careful small talk.

I hadn’t wanted to cross the threshold into what is, apparently, my new home because I could feel that as soon as I did so – as soon as I stopped _moving_ and _doing_ – that I’d start thinking. And, fuck me, but I really don’t want to start thinking. If I start thinking I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. Not even with a couple of shots of whiskey dulling the edges of my brain.

“Time to balls up, Avery,” I mutter out loud after spending an indeterminate amount of time staring at the bundle of clothes and toiletries that Josephine had scrounged up.

Even with that rousing self-endorsement it still takes another dozen deep breaths before I put on my big girl panties and walk around the partial wall dividing the cabin and keeping the draft from the door out of the sleeping area. The sleeping area is small, just like the rest of the house, barely big enough to house a full sized bed, a small beside table – currently littered with several pieces of paper and empty vials, a half filled bookcase, and a pair of wooden trunks.  

Not that I notice these things. Not really. Not now. Not when all my attention is stolen by the body lying on the bed.

Max.

It’s several more minutes before I gather myself together enough to stumble over to the bed and plop myself down in an ungraceful heap next to him.

“Jesus, you poor bastard,” I mutter.

On the mountain, in the chaos of blood and ash, he had looked my age – maybe a little older – but unconsciousness has robbed him of several years, smoothing lines and experiences from his face. His nose has been straightened, revealing a graceful Grecian shape, though the flesh around it is still mottled and swollen. Likewise, the slice of the demon’s whip has also been brought back together in a neat line of dark stitching against olive skin while inky black hair lies in a halo around his head, limp and unwashed but glimmering like silk in the firelight all the same. The man’s face is a study in angles – with high cheekbones that are sharp enough to do Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hiddleston proud, a long jawline, and a pointed, foxlike chin. His lips are little more than a pink slash beneath his nose, just a little too thin to be truly attractive, and his eyebrows almost delicate as they arch above eyelashes that are bound to make women round the world weep with envy.

He’s not beautiful, like the Commander, or ruggedly handsome in that _up-against-the-wall_ or _thrown-across-the-table_ sort of way that Varric is but there’s something about him that is almost beguiling, the sharpness of his features enough to make my hands ache to touch them.

“So,” I say to the warm silence. “Apparently you’re some Messiah figure - good luck with that, by the way, I don’t imagine it’s going to end well – and I’m your Mary Magdalene. Or something. Apparently you gave people _ideas_.”

Dangerous things, ideas.

The man on the bed is silent.

I clear my throat. “Ideas which we’re exploiting. And by _we_ I mean _Leliana_ and _Josephine_. And me to, I suppose, though I didn’t set out to. Of course, if it keeps me from being dissected on a table I’ll fuck you on the chantry steps so it’s not exactly like my motives are pure. I just… fuck, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I mean, I know they say that people in a coma can hear those around them but… I’m betting you’re pretty out of it. I’d be pretty out of it,” I add, thinking of yesterday. Honestly, part of me is still more than a little surprised that I hadn’t gotten turned into a pile of goo when I fell out of the rift yesterday – never mind all the shit that came after. “But, I suppose since I can’t hardly keep my eyes open and I’m about to crawl into bed with you that you deserve to know. Even if I do have to repeat  it when you wake up. Oh god, please wake up.”

I sigh.

A log on the fire pops, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

“Fine. Here it goes: to the best of my knowledge I am not from this world. Either that or I’m stuck in some weird as fuck coma dream myself. Leliana wants to keep that all hush-hush, thank god, but as such has deemed that you’re stuck with me. Sorry about that. I don’t… I don’t know how I got here or what the fuck I’m even _doing_ here. I was just driving home with my mom and… I’m here. She’s _not_ ,” I blink against the sudden burn of tears welling in my eyes and trickling down my cheek. Mama B. She’s my everything and I have no idea what happened to her. Oh god, she’s probably frantic. Like the time I’d wandered off at the zoo and no one could find me because I’d fallen asleep tucked away in some cave exhibit next to the bats. “ _Shit_ , twenty-six years old and I’m crying for my mom,” I try to joke but my voice breaks and my fingers curl into the warmth of the blankets thrown over the bed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing. Or what’s happening. Or what’s _going_ to happen. Your world is scary, Max. Fucking terrifying. And weird. And beautiful. And… I just want to go home.”

Home to the little twelve hundred square foot ranch where Mama B is sitting on the couch eating sugar cookies and Rudolph is playing on the tv and the Christmas lights are glowing on the tree.

The ache in my chest is enough to make me grip at the fabric over my heart, fingers tightening until I can feel them cutting into my skin through the goddamn shirt.

I want someone to hug me, to hold me, to tell me it will be alright.

I want it so badly that I’ve got my hand on the door before I realize it, intending to go crawl into the tent with Varric.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Instead I toe off my boots and change into the long sleeved nightgown provided for me and crawl onto the far side of the bed, careful not to jostle the unconscious man lying there. The blankets are cool as I slide beneath them, tugging them close around my body until nothing but the top of my head is sticking out of the cocoon I’ve made for myself.

“Goodnight, Max,” I finally whisper, snaking out a hand until it finds his. Gently, I curl my fingers around his wrist, stealing this modicum of comfort for myself. “Please wake up,” I add softly.

 _Please wake up_ , I repeat inside my head as silent tears dampen the pillow beneath my cheeks. _Please let me wake up_.

But whatever powers exist in this Thedas are as deaf to my prayers as Jesus ever was and the little house is still there when my eyes open in the early glow of dawn.

I don’t wake up. Not the way I want to.

But Max does.


	8. Let's Play Pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized as I was part way through writing this chapter that I'd meant to inquire whether you all preferred a "Max wakes up" scene set in bed or as something a little more canon (he wakes up alone and wanders out to figure out what the hell is going on) but it completely slipped my mind. So based upon past comments I guessed. Hopefully I didn't do too badly.

I open my eyes to find the whole of Haven stretched out before me awash in infinite, blurry shades of yellow and brown.

_Fuck._

I swallow harshly and twist my fingers in the fabric of my shirt as I try to take a breath. I can’t do this again. I can’t. The blurry, insubstantial nature of the place, _the Fade_ , shifting around me is enough to make my skin crawl.

Deliberately I shut my eyes and force air into my lungs, holding it there for a moment before I let it out to the count of ten. Breathe. I just have to remember to breathe. I got out of this place last time, I can do it again.

“I can do it again,” I repeat softly, holding onto the words like a lifeline. I just have to find another rift. And fall through it. And hope that there aren’t a million fucking demons waiting to eat me for breakfast.

When I no longer feel like I’m about to do an excellent imitation of a drunken penguin I open my eyes and my gaze is instantly drawn to vortex of green light glowing above the mountains. Right. If I’m going to find another rift than I suppose beneath the Big Fucking Hole is as good a place to start as any.

It’s weird to walk on the snow and not hear it crunching beneath my feet. Even weirder to feel the strange powdery sensation against my bare toes. It’s more disconcerting than having my heels sink several inches with each step and _that_ lovely experience had been coupled with a dozen graceful face plants before I’d gotten the hang of walking with half of my shoes constantly vanishing beneath my feet.

My movements are silent. The village around me is not.

Oh, it’s nothing so flashy and buzzing as the life and the panic and the fear that had ebbed and flowed about me all day. It’s not as _real_. It’s an echo, an odd distant pricking of my senses that tell me that if I just look hard enough, if I just listen closely enough that I’ll suddenly be able to hear the whispers dancing just out of reach or find that the world has finally snapped into sharp clarity before my eyes. I’m standing out on the stoop with naught but a fucking door between me and the conversation, if only I could get the damn thing to open.

The feeling is so fucking infuriating that I want to claw my own skin off.

I walk across the courtyard instead, picking my way through unsteady images of boxes and tents instead of simply marching down the faux ice covered steps. A silent fuck you to the blurry world around me.

It’s not real, not quite, but to hell if I actually acknowledge it.

_Fuck you,_ I snarl inwardly as I stare up at the glowing mass in the sky. Of course, the whole vortex of doom is a veritable fuck you in return. So.

I sigh and trail a hand across the rough-but-not-rough-because-it’s-not-actually-all-the-way-there canvas of the last of the tents set before the chantry. And promptly freeze like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

Sorrow. Sorrow so pure and biting that I can feel it running down my skin in icy, burning trails. I shudder beneath the weight of it, fingers curling around the curve of the tent.

_“Now her hand is raised,_

_A sword to pierce the sun_

_With iron shield she defends the faithful_

_Let chaos be undone”_

The words, when I hear them, are startlingly clear, rising above the insubstantial white noise like some sort of bat signal outlining itself against the night sky.

Sorrow. Desperation. Determination.

An iron, unbending will.

I jerk away from the tent with a little girly shriek that does nothing to dispel the image that I am, in fact, a pocket sized child. Wonderful.

“Leliana?” I ask cautiously after I’ve managed to suck in a few frantic breaths. Because that’s her. It has to be. The voice is softer and a little higher pitched but the accent is the same, as is the lyrical quality of the voice – as if she’s half a step away from singing every word that crosses her tongue.

Huh.

I wonder if that’s why Varric calls her Lady Nightingale.

“Focus, Avery,” I growl as I spin slowly in place, glaring suspiciously at the muted landscape around me. Now is not the time to go cuckoo for cocoa puffs. _Later_ , I tell myself. Always later. Possibly over tea. Or a bottle of something stronger.

Oh my god, Thedas is going to turn me into an alcoholic.

Throwing the tent a distrustful look, I carefully edge around it and move onward. Hopefully, dear sweet baby Jesus please, that’s the last of the weird shit. Or the _weirder_ shit. At least until I get out of here. Again.

It’s not the last of it. Naturally.

A touch to Varric’s tent fills my eyes with the vision of the dwarf sitting at a table, dirty and bloody, watching with a tight jaw and weary eyes as Cassandra slams her hands into the table between them. _“You will tell me where he is!_ ” she yells as Varric crosses his arms across his chest.

_“Maferath’s balls, Seeker, I already told you – I don’t know.”_

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s lying through his teeth.  Of course, I don’t think he’s trying very hard to begin with.

The vision fades away, curling up and vanishing like smoke caught in the wind as I lift my fingers from the canvas structure. Jesus, this is weird. Weirder than last time, if that can be believed.

Despite my intentions to take the main lane straight down to the village gates and head on up the mountain my feet have other ideas. My feet and… everything else, pretty much. I move through the village like a ghost, fingers reaching out without thought to trail over battered boards and treated canvas. I can’t help it, can’t stop it. I have to touch it as I move, this strange sepia world around me.

Sorrow, I discover, feels cold and hard as it lodges itself between my breasts – an icy, crushing force that makes it impossible to breathe. Despair is like smoke, thick and choking and acrid across my tongue. Fear is bright and sharp. Anger is harsh and scorching, like a pan left to boil dry.

I find nothing happier than those and am not surprised.

Not even a little.

Poor fucking souls. Every last one of them.

A brush against the corner of the tavern raises such a pang of longing and homesickness in my chest that I stumble, losing my touch on the building to keep myself from falling into the powdery ground.

I don’t touch the house that Max and I are supposed to share even though I want to so much that it makes my hands itch. The house appears the same at first glance if a bit washed out. And if I’d only glanced at it as I strode by – which is what I’d intended to do before I took a meandering stroll around this fucked up ghost town – I wouldn’t have even noticed it. But I don’t just steal a look. I stand in the dirty snow in front of the front stoop and stare at the door, fingers on fire with the need to reach out and touch.

I don’t though, because as I take a good look at the damned thing I can see that the entire house is glowing with a soft, almost sickly, luminescent green light. Kind of like that Giant Fucking Hole.

Or.

_OR_ … that weird bit of green fire stitched into Max’s palm.

Dear Virgin in a teddy, this has to be real. It _has_ to because if my subconscious is making all this shit up then I have bigger problems than being in a coma.

I itch to touch, to taste, to draw my fingers across the door. What would I feel, what would I hear, what would I _see_ if I connected with that glow? With the quiet flames licking around window and floor?

A long, growling howl rips through the air and I jump, swearing. “Fantastic,” I mutter under my breath, heart jumping like a terrified rabbit behind the arch of my ribs. “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I repeat, gulping at the air. Because strange ass ghost town and emotions that have tastes and visions and demons every other goddamn thing is _clearly_ not enough. So _of course_ there are also dangerous animals.

I must have pissed on god’s cornflakes in a previous life. That’s really the only explanation I can come up with for all of… _this_.

“Start moving Avery,” I mutter to myself. “Rift first, then hysterics.”

Sighing, I turn away from the green glow. Later. Always with the later.

  __

* * *

 

“Shit,” I breathe, slumping against the gate, unable to summon the energy to swear as properly as this situation so clearly deserves. A distant part of my brain notes, rather hysterically, that Mama B would be ashamed of my lack of creativity. But really, I’m not sure I could curse enough to do the sight before me justice. So I don’t even try.

There are demons everywhere, as far as I can see. There are demons on the lake and demons scrambling along the shoreline. There’s even some clawing their way up the mountainside, howling and snarling and hissing and screeching and…

Fuck, but this is bad.

I’m never going to get out of here. I just became a permanent resident of Fade-ville, population: one tiny earthling, one wolf, and an entire fucking hoard of demons.

I wonder how long I can exist in Ghost Haven before I lose my mind completely because I’m sure as hell not making it through the plague of demons to find myself a rift. Ignoring their sheer numbers I have exactly nothing pointy to stick them with. I’m small and – upon rare occasion – quiet, but I’m nowhere near small enough or quiet enough to sneak my past _that_.

“You are here,” a familiar voice murmurs behind me. “I had wondered…”

I screech like a little kid stuck on roller coaster and slam the flat of my back against the wood of the gate, contorting my neck to try and look behind me and keep an eye on the roiling knot of long limbed monstrosities screeching less than fifty feet away. “Solas,” I murmur, my attempts at self-induced whiplash suddenly frozen as I stare at the man standing in the center of the lane.

He looks different here. Different, but the same.

He still looks like a bit like an absentminded scholar who got all his fashion advice from a hobo but… there’s something. Something in the long, lean lines of his body as he stands watching me – a shimmering, coiling sort of energy that makes me look up, up from long legs and narrow hips and broad shoulders to the shining quicksilver of his eyes and still feel like I should continue my gaze upward. Upward and onward to something greater, something bigger. Something that I could _see_ if I only just…

I blink.

“Is this real?” I ask and then promptly swear and smack the back of my head against the wooden gate at the sheer uselessness of the question. “You know what I mean,” I add mulishly, glaring at Solas’ deliberately bland face.

He acquiesces with a graceful nod of his head, “I do. Though, I confess that the exact answer to your question depends entirely on what your definition of _real_ is.”

I blink.

“Fucking hell,” I groan. “I’m not caffeinated enough for a philosophical discussion.” Solas’ lips curl at the edges, flashing just the barest glimpse of white in a brief smirk that is decidedly feral. “I thought you said that people don’t physically walk in the Fade. That Max and I were the only ones.” I give him a pointed look because clearly _that_ had been a great big fat lie.

Not that I blame him, of course, not really. Not after the rather hysterical fuss that seems to be a defining characteristic of most of my conversations with authority figures in Thedas thus far. Still.

“Ah,” Solas’ voice is gentle then, soothing for all the shadow of a growl hidden in the timber of it. Or maybe because of it.  “That is still true. I did not lie to you, _da’lath’in_ , you simply make the false assumption that you are in the Fade.”

I can’t stop the little hysterical giggle from squeaking between teeth at that. Because, _clearly_ … I make a vague motion at the ghost town and the demons and the… everything.

“…Physically,” the mage amended with a slight huff of acknowledgement.

I blink.

“… there’s another way to be here?” I finally ask.

Solas smiles again, a dangerous flash of teeth. “Of course. In simplified terms, the Fade is the unwaking world, the unconscious world – one could even call it the world between worlds. It is where we dream. A subconscious connection with it is what powers a mage’s abilities.” He catches my hand in his own and I stare in shock as he holds it up between us. He’s holding it. I can see _it_. I can see the long, slender lines of his fingers wrapped around mine. I can even feel it. Kind of. But only kind of. I feel it through a heavy numbness, as if the top layers of my flesh have gone too long without blood flow or been subjected to a topical anesthetic. “It is not your body that is here, little one, but your mind.”

I blink.

“I’m _dreaming_?” I don’t screech. Not even a little bit. “All of _that…_ ” I throw a hand out towards the roiling mass of demons pacing and screeching beyond some invisible line, “…is a fucking dream?”

“Yes,” he squeezes my hand and gazes down at me, eyes flashing like moonlight caught on the surface of a mirror, “and _no_ but that is an explanation that will have to wait until after you _wake up_.”

 

* * *

 

“So this is a definite improvement.”

 “Shhh,” I groan groggily, nuzzling deeper into the bed. “Five more minutes.”

The warmth beneath my cheek vibrates with unrestrained laughter. “I’d love to, sweetheart but I have to piss and you’re using me as a bloody pillow.”

I grunt and press my face against the unmistakable planes of a man’s chest. “Comfy.”

“Trust me, this is a thousand times better than a frozen cell beneath the chantry,” the amusement is thick enough to walk on but now it’s edged with something sharp that sends a shiver down my spine and makes me cling more tightly to the body beneath me. “However, I still have to piss.”

I growl. Stupid biology. Fucking bladders should come with a no-peeing-before-dawn setting.

The bedding beneath my cheek is warm but not nearly as warm as the body that has abandoned me to the cruel world of half-awake. I groan and drag a hand through my hair and swear into the pillow. God, I need coffee.

Blinking, I twist just enough to take in the lean profile of the man leaning unsteadily against the wall and promptly let out a little screech and somehow managed to fall off the end of the bed. Not really sure how I manage to do that.

“Fuck but that’s cold! It’s cold. Why is it so fucking cold?” I mutter but I don’t move from where my ass is planted on the absolutely frigid floorboards.

“Because it’s winter and you’re in the bloody Frostbacks,” Max mutters as he makes his way across the room to a little door in the corner that I hadn’t noticed last night. “Get back in the bed or the blankets will get cold.” The sheer mundane-ness of the suggestion snaps my brain into… well. Not exactly prime working order but something that might pass for it if you run into it on the street and you don’t look at it too closely.

“Oh my god, you’re awake,” I whisper, staring.

It’s a big deal. It should be a big deal. It’s a big deal, right?

“Brilliant observation,” Max drawls. “Get in the bed, sweetheart.”

I blink.

I scramble back onto the bed and bury myself under the blankets.

They’re definitely cooler than they had been two minutes ago. Bugger.

_Max is awake_.

The thought hits me like a freight train as I lie there and move my limbs between the covers, using the friction to force some warmth back into them. Max is awake. And upright. And walking…ish.

And crawling back into bed with me.

“You look like shit,” I tell him as he collapses back into the pillows, his face a very worrying shade of gray.

“I feel like shit,” he acknowledges and huddles beneath the blankets. I can feel him shaking, the blankets twitching over the both of us.

I hesitate for exactly half a second.

“Screw it,” I mutter under my breath and roll over onto my side, pressing myself gently to the line of his body. “Can’t have you freezing to death,” I add as I gently drop my head to rest over his heart.

And I’d be a lying liarface if I said that I didn’t enjoy doing so immensely.

Ignoring the fact that Max is not exactly bad looking it _is_ fucking freezing in here despite the fire crackling away in the grate.

The man lets out a little grunt of surprise but otherwise doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, he curls into me, and tangles a hand in my hair. After another minute or two he starts stroking it in a way that makes me think that he’s doing it more for him than for anything else. Not that I particularly care that I’m being stroked like a sleeping cat. It’s nice. Comforting.

A tension I didn’t even know was there eases away beneath the distracted touch and I melt against Max’s side.

“So I don’t want you to think I’m complaining - because I’m really, _really_ not – but why are you here?”

Fair enough, as far as questions went.

“What is the last thing you remember?” I ask quietly, ignoring the immediate ‘ _What are you doing in my bed?’_ for the broader, unasked question instead.

His fingers pause deep in my hair, nails scratching against my s*kull. “The Breach,” he exhales unsteadily after several heartbeats of hesitation. “I… Maker, it felt like the entire sky was trying to crush me. Is it gone? Did I at least close the blighted thing?”

“No…”

“Damn it!” Max’s fingers tightened almost painfully in my hair as he descends into a truly inspiring level of profanity. Fuck, I don’t even know what half of the curses _mean_ , though that doesn’t stop me from filing them away to ask about later.

“…but you did slap some plastic wrap and duct tape over it,” I continue on, forcefully, as I lean my entire weight on him to keep him from climbing out of bed and doing god knows what. “It’s not _gone_ ,” I explain at the questioning grunt, “If you walk outside right it would be immediately obvious that the Giant Fucking Hole of Terror is still there but it’s no longer shitting demons down on everyone’s head.” As the words sink in, all of the tension in Max’s body suddenly vanishes and he slumps back against the mattress so suddenly that for a moment my half-asleep mind thinks he might have actually melted into the bedding. “Everyone is really rather impressed with you,” I add after a moment.

“Oh, Andraste’s flaming _ass_ …! I didn’t do it to impress people,” he snaps. “I did it because I didn’t have a choice. I did it because I woke up in a bloody cell to find that the whole world had blown up and I couldn’t remember it happening but _obviously_ I was there because I have this fucking _thing_ on my hand and Cassandra fucking Pentaghast practically hauled me up the mountain by my ear like some errant choir boy!”

I snort into his chest.

Yeah. I can see it.

“Well. They’re still impressed. Hell, I’m impressed,” and I am. The man’s closing tears in the fabric of reality with little more than a thrust of his hand. Impressed doesn’t really cover it. I can see why people are deifying him. Don’t agree with it, but I get it. “They’re calling you the Herald of Andraste.”

“They’re _what?!”_

“Apparently when _you_ fell out of the Fade a bunch of people saw a Figure standing behind you,” I make air quotes with one hand at the word figure. “I imagine if you couldn’t wave your hand and perform miracles that figure would have been a demon and you’d be... imprisoned.” Or dead, I add silently, thinking of the tale that Josephine and Leliana had woven for me. Without the thought that there is a Divine Being out there who’d happened to handpick Max for some Super Special Mission I have no doubts that the people of Haven would have torn him apart in their fear and grief. I shudder, fingers twisting at the soft fabric of his clothing, and continue “But you’ve got that green thing on your hand and it _does_ perform miracles so now everyone is quite certain that the figure was some chick named Andraste and that she’s sent you to save everyone.”

Max snarls, the sheer fury at _that_ moving him straight past cursing and into a deluge of threats so violent that all the blood drains from my face.

“…and that still doesn’t explain _this_!” he finally finishes. The hand not tangled in my hair waves in front of my face, clearly meant to encompass the fact that we’re here. Together. In bed. Snuggling.

I frown. “Ah. Well. It kinda does.” Max waits. I sigh. “You remember who I am, er, where I came from?” I ask cautiously.

Max snorts. “Yeah. You fell out of the Fade with less clothing than a Denerim whore and took ten years off of Cassandra’s life. Best part of the whole bloody day.” I can feel his lips curving ever so slightly against the top of my head.

I huff at the whore comment but let it slide because, frankly, after seeing what everyone else in Haven is wearing my little red cocktail dress is more than a little scandalous. All of the leg, I think, though the plunge in the back probably hadn’t helped matters.  “Yes, well, my clothing is perfectly acceptable where I’m from. Which is not…” I pause and turn my face more firmly into his chest, “… _here_.”

“I figured,” he drawls dryly. “Your Common is excellent but your accent is still there, for those that know what to listen for. At first I thought maybe somewhere in the Free Marches but your dress is much more suited to the heat of the Seheron.”

I blink and sit up. I want… no. I _need_ to be able to look at his face while I tell him.

“Um. It’s nice to know I can pass,” I mutter after a rather pregnant pause. “But as far as we can determine… I’m not actually from Thedas.”

It takes more than that, of course, but Max waits with a surprisingly bland and accepting face while I muddle through the impossible tale of who I am and my arrival here. When I’m done he sits, huddled beneath the blankets, and stares at me for a long, long moment before offering a one shoulder shrug. “Sure,” he agrees. “I’ll buy it.”

I blink.

“What? _Why_?”

Because surely, surely someone around here isn’t going to just drink my crazy – if entirely truthful – kool aid and accept it.

Though that little voice that lives in the back of my head is pleased that it’s not Max who finally puts their foot down.

Max shrugs again. “Why not?” he asks in return. “Look, sweetheart, in the last few days I’ve survived an explosion that leveled a mountaintop, walked physically through the Fade, been accused and jailed for murder, fought my way up a mountainside covered in demons, and sealed multiple holes in the Veil with some sort of magical force that has attached itself to my hand. After all that shit, if you want to tell me that you’re from another world, who the fuck am I to disagree?”

The man presents a valid point, of course.

And I tell him as much.

“Anyway,” I continue, “The point is that Leliana thought it rather prudent for everyone to believe that I belonged here. That everyone just assume that I am another member of Conclave that happened to fall out of the Fade too.” Sans miraculous powers, of course. Thank god. I'd make a horrible religious figure. Not that it sounds like Max is going to make a terribly good one.

“Mmm. I can see the value in that. The Qun in particular would want to get their hands on you if they knew what you were.” I don’t even bother trying to repress the shudder that races down my spine. Nope. Not thinking about it. “But what does that have to do with you being in my bed? Once again, not that I’m complaining, because a pretty woman and a warm bed is miles better than a cold dungeon floor and shackles, but…”

“….they’recallingmetheHerald’sMistress,” I spit out in a rush.

Max’s eyebrows nearly launch themselves off his skull. “You want to run that past me again, sweetheart?”

I sigh. Heavily. “The soldiers – and by extension all of Haven – are calling me the Herald’s Mistress.”

Max lets out a noise that could be growl. Or maybe a strangled bark of laughter. Or both. Probably both. “Of course they are,” he murmurs after several choked off noises, “Why are they doing that?”

“Because I fall out of the Fade with less clothing than a Denerim whore and slap you while you proceed to let me, protect me, and then kiss the hell out of me before you’re all fucking heroic.” I narrow my eyes. “Why did you do that, by the way? The kissing bit?”

“Complaints?”

I snort. “Not exactly.  But that’s not an answer.”

“Honestly?”

I nod.

Max grimaces and looks away. “Because I was pretty damn sure I was about to die and it had been a remarkably shitty day. Week.”

I blink.

“Oh.”

It comes out a great deal more softly than I intended. Damn it.

Max’s fingers catch my own, threading through them so that he can squeeze them gently. “If I was going to die for those bastards and this bloody _mess_ they’ve created, I was going to take something nice for myself before I did it. If I’d thought I could have gotten away with it I’d have fucked you right there in the ruins before everything went all…” he wave his green marked hand, glaring at it.

I gape. Probably unattractively. “That would have been cold,” I finally murmur. Because really. Snow. Ice. Frozen rocks. Bare ass. Not very pleasant sounding. For either one of us.

This time Max really does laugh. “Yeah. _Cold_ ,” he drawls and I shiver at the sensation of his voice sliding down my spine like silk. “Sorry. It’s not the most chivalrous of attitudes but…”

“No, no, I get it.” I wave my hand absentmindedly. Demons. Death. Giant Ass Fucking Hole in the Goddamn Sky. I get it. “So pretending to be lovers isn’t going to be a problem?”

Max’s smirk is downright feral as he stares at me. “Oh, sweetheart, who said anything about pretending?”

“I… what?” I stare at him because clearly my ears are no longer functioning like the good lord made them. Traitorous bastards.

“Not now, of course…”

“…of course,” I repeat under my breath as I stare at him. His thumb runs gently over the underside of my wrist and I can feel the calluses on his fingertips against the tender flesh.

“… because I am bloody exhausted and I don’t think my cock could keep it up right now if my life depended on it.” As if to illustrate his point he flops backwards and throws a hand over his eyes while patting invitingly at the mattress next to him with the other. “Maybe tomorrow though. Or the day after. Once we've gotten the rest of your story straightened out. Unless you’d rather not…?” He peers at me around the curve of his hand, the dark shine of his eye blatantly demanding a response.

“Eh,” I finally shrug. “I’ve had worse offers.”

Max snorts. “Good enough. Now come here and snuggle with me. I hate the bloody Frostbacks and it would be a great pity if my bits froze off before you could make use of them.”

I snigger into his chest as I resume my place curled up against his side, our legs tangling together beneath the sheets like two puzzle pieces locking together. “Humble _and_ heroic, I see.”

Max yawns into my hair and tightens the arm he’s wrapped around my shoulders. “Shut up, Avery,” he murmurs. “Let me sleep and I promise that I’ll fuck you through the mattress as soon as I’m able.”

“Promises, promises,” I whisper but by the time the words fall from my mouth he’s already asleep, his body dropping into unconsciousness’s as quickly as he had surfaced from it. And despite the whirlwind of thoughts and conflicting emotions racing through my head I join him just as quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, now that I've FINALLY, gotten this chapter posted (I swear I've had everything but the last 1000 words done for weeks) I feel I should give a "writing update" of sorts. 
> 
> I'm not sure how much of this story will be posted in the next month. There are a lot of reasons for that but it mainly boils down to a few things: RL is crazy, depression is a giant, muse-sucking bitch (and has been for the last two months and I _despise_ that it's stolen writing motivation from me. If I don't write, I die, and right now I feel like I'm about to burst out of my skin), and I'll (theoretically) be focusing on finishing the first draft of the next section of my Drown Me in Love series during NaNoWriMo. When I'm done with that I'll return to plugging away on this as well as outlining other fics that are in the works. A giant thank you for all that have commented, kudo'd, or contacted me. I really can't tell you how much it warms my heart.
> 
> Next chapter we'll (finally) get to the founding of the Inquisition.


	9. Fake It Til You Make It

If anything, it’s colder in the morning. Of course.

“Bloody Frostbacks,” Max snarls as he stumbles through the back doorway of the tavern, twists gracefully – to keep from falling flat on his face, I suspect – and drops into the chair beside the small table with a groan. “My balls are about to freeze off.”

I don’t doubt. It’s fucking freezing out there.

“A heinous tragedy indeed,” I reply dryly as I go about poking at the embers in the wood stove like Varric had shown me, stirring them to life before adding several lengths of hewn wood to the burgeoning flames. Outside the sky is still dark, the eastern horizon barely beginning to glow, and it is entirely too early to be up. I should still be in bed like a normal person. Sleeping. Or cuddling. Or something. Not traipsing about in a cold so vicious that my lungs feel as sharp and frozen as the ice outside the door. I shiver and rub my hands down the wool covered expanse of my arms and set about making tea. The cold itself has ensured that I’m wide awake, even at this godforsaken hour, but I’d really rather not feel like the North Pole has sprung up somewhere around my small intestine.

“It would be for you,” Max mutters and leans his head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. He’s gone a little grey around the gills. Stubborn bastard probably should have stayed in bed.

I shrug. “Eh.”

“Eh?” he repeats, disbelieving. I don’t think he even notices when I press a cup of weak and lightly sweetened tea in to his hands. I don’t like the way he’s shaking. It’s a little less _I’m fucking cold_ and a little more _I’m about to throw up and pass out._

I shrug again. “Cock’s not everything. Now drink your tea.”

Max chokes. “Cock’s not everything?” he repeats hoarsely, shaping the words with his mouth as if he can’t quite understand what they mean.

“Oh, god, please don’t tell me that you’re one of those idiots who thinks that there has to be a dick involved for it to be _real sex_.” And I air quote that like a boss. It’s nothing less than the statement deserves. “Because some of the best sex I’ve ever had was definitely cock-less.”

Max recoils from the obvious disdain in my voice, eyes widening as he stares at me over the rim of the cup clasped between his hands. “No. Maker, _no_ ,” he snaps back instantly. “That would be an insult to women everywhere.”

I blink. “Oh. Well. That’s…good.” I blink again and sink into the other chair, mindlessly sippy at my own – considerably stronger, thank you – tea. It’s not coffee, which really, a morning like this calls for, but it’s hot. So, so hot. I sigh a little with pleasure and open my eyes to find Max staring at me with a look of wide eyed speculation. He still hasn’t drunk any of his tea.  “Something on my face?”

“Not at the moment,” he responds, but he’s still staring. I wait. I can be patient. Occasionally. I sip at the tea and wish for baked goods. Maybe I’ll make some scones. There are a few boxes of different types of nuts in the cold storage and a cloth bag of dried fruit over there on the shelf under the work table. They’d probably be a bit rich for the pale, waxy looking man sitting across from me though, so maybe I should hold off on a baking spree until I know if he can even keep down sweetened water. Er, tea.  “Not that it’s any of my business but does that mean that you’ve…” he trails off and I can see the desire to ask warring with how to fucking phrase it.

I hide my grin with my mug.

“… with a woman?” I finish for him. “Yes. Quite a few times, though not with any frequency in the last couple of years.” And isn’t that just a goddamn depressing truth. Still, if I’m supposed to be his mistress he should probably know of my preferences. Or lack of preferences. Or whatever. I'm not even sure of the politically correct way to phrase it anymore. Or he might just want someone who is solely devoted to dick. Who the fuck knows. “Last woman I was with was Marissa a few years back. Friends with benefits arrangement. Horrible roommate. Absolutely awful to try and live with but, _Jesus_ , she was good in bed. And the week leading up to her period she was so hyped up on hormones I swear she camped on my face.” Or my fingers. They’d get all prune-y and wrinkled. Totally worth it though. Especially when she returned the favor.

“ _Fuck,”_ the curse leaves Max’s mouth in a soft explosion of air and he’s staring at me with pupils blown straight to hell. I force myself to swallow the tea sitting on my tongue and _not_ think about doing the same to his cock. Christ on a cracker, it’s been too long since I got properly laid.

Not to mention that this can’t be good for Max’s current state of health.

Fuck, but I’m an asshole.

“Are you sure you’re not a desire demon?” he manages to croak out.

My eyes narrow dangerously. “Do I _look_ like a fucking demon?”

The bastard just smirks.

“Fucker,” I growl. “Just drink your damn tea.”

“So you prefer women?” He asks eventually and the way he says it makes my breath catch somewhere in the center of my chest. He says it like it’s… nothing. Like it makes absolutely no fucking difference. He could be commenting on the weather or asking me to pass the salt.

It’s… refreshing. And startling.

I blink at him.

“Um…no. I… uh… I don’t really have a preference?” It comes out as a question. Why the hell does it come out as a question? I haven’t been shy about my sexual preferences – or lack thereof – since I was thirteen. “That’s…” I wave a hand in frustration. “It doesn’t matter to me,” I grit out. “A person’s physical appearance – including their gender identity – is such a small part of sexual attraction for me. It’s just a single piece of who they are. So this…” I motion between us “…isn’t forcing me to go against my natural inclinations. Like at all.”

Max smiles, a small little thing that makes everything south of my belly button sit up and beg. “Good to know,” he murmurs.

I don’t throw my mug at his head but it’s pretty damn close.

“So we should work on our background story before everyone shows up,” he says after another pause. He’s managed to drink more than half his tea and if anything he’s got a bit more color in his cheeks now. Though whether that’s the result of having something hot in his stomach or from something a little stiffer – I snigger silently – I’m not entirely sure. Probably a little of both.

“Everyone?”

“Mmm. I’m sure that soldier posted outside our door has gone and squealed to his superiors by now.”

The man has a point. The guard had been looking a little shifty as we’d slipped (me) and prowled (Max) across the frozen street.

“Probably,” I agree. “But unless his superior happens to be fucking Roderick then they probably already know about me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he dismisses instantly, his face suddenly serious. Dangerously so. “If I’m to protect you we need to have a story and _we need to start living it_.  Us _and_ them. A lie only works if everyone believes it to be the truth.”

It takes a minute for my brain to puzzle that one out but when I do, I nod. “Yeah,” I agree roughly and knock back the rest of my tea, suddenly wishing it was something quite a bit stronger.

 

* * *

 

We spend the next half hour hammering out the skeleton of our story. I was born on an estate near Wycome – because apparently it fits my slight accent better than other major cities in the Free Marches except for Kirkwall and Max’s face does all sorts of scary, bitter things at the mention of that place so I, intelligently, decide that Wycome is perfectly acceptable. Also, that I need to borrow Leliana’s map and familiarize myself with it. I was raised by a family member after my parents died. It’s close enough to the truth that it won’t cause me any issues. At seventeen I left home and ventured into the wide scary world and worked my way up from a seedy back alley tavern to restaurants of a more sterling caliber. It was in one such establishment that we met. I was just doing my job and Max was just doing his.

“What _is_ it that you do?” I ask, looking over at him as I rustle around beneath the work table for the elusive bag of dried fruit.

“I’m an assassin.”

I blink.

And gape a little.

It’s probably not very attractive.

“…an assassin?” I repeat hoarsely. “That’s, like, an actual _thing_?” And are we talking 007 or John Wick?

“Mmmm. And I’m very good at it,” he adds, smirking. Remembering the way he had moved on the mountaintop I’m inclined to believe him. “I trained under the Antivan Crows, though I’m not one myself, and am successful enough that they leave me the fuck alone and let me do my own thing. Anyone that runs in… shadier circles…likely knows exactly who I am. Lady Nightingale, for certain, and if the Left Hand of the Divine knows then so does the Right. Which is probably why they were so quick to believe that I’d murdered the bloody Divine,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Idiots. That’s not a contract worth taking. Not unless I plan on spending the rest of my life in Tevinter. Or the Seheron. And even then the Nightingale would likely find me and string me up by my thumbs.”

I choke on my own spit.

Brilliant, Avery. Utterly, fucking brilliant.

“How does one even become an assassin?” I mutter once I can finally breathe again.

Max tips a shoulder. “Most start out their lives as slaves. A guild buys them and then trains them. Provided they do well with their training, most earn their freedom after a contracted number of years. But I’m guessing you’re asking how _I_ became can assassin?” I nod. “The short of it? I was fifteen, stupid, and desperate to not only get away from my father but to throw a giant _fuck you_ into his plans.”

“Did it work?”

He smirks at me over the edge of his mug. “Oh, yes,” he purrs and I roll my eyes.

“Smug bastard,” I mutter as I toss a handful of the dried… cherries? I think they’re cherries… onto the work surface and attack them with the chef’s knife. The soft rattle of the knife rocking over the scarred wood and through the ingredients is soothing. “So you’re an… assassin,” and Jesus, fuck, I can’t believe I just said that out loud and _meant it_ , “and we met at the restaurant or bar where I worked?”

“Yeah. I imagine I would have flirted…”

…Sounds about right.

“… and you would have played hard to get…” I make a noise. “No?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Hard to get isn’t really my style. Life’s too short and all that shit. If I want to sleep with someone I generally just go for it. The worst that can happen is that they can turn me down.” I shrug.

Max stares at me for a minute and then offers me a shrug of his own. “True enough,” he acknowledges with a little tip of his tea. “So I noticed you while I was gathering information and probably fucked you up against the wall…”

“…definitely acceptable,” I nod approvingly and he winks.

“… and then left. I imagine we bumped into each other and other convenient surfaces several times before I finally started seeking you out. Things got serious after a while, I imagine. Maybe two years? Yeah, two years sounds about right. Say we were together for another year before things went to utter shit in Kirkwall and the war broke out. They’ve told you about the war, right?”

They had. _Mages_ and _Templars_ clawing at each other’s throats, one fighting for the right to live their lives and the other fighting to exterminate – or at least contain – them. Honestly, I can objectively understand the Templar’s point of view. Really, I can. But fundamentally I’m just not feeling the love – or anything else positive.

“Yeah,” I growl and dump the chopped cherries into a mixing bowl with a little more force than necessary.

So with the whole world flushed down the crapper Max had decided to investigate the Conclave. If for no other reason than such a gathering would be a hot bed of intrigue and information. Clearly important things when one kills people for a living. I, apparently, got brought along because it wasn’t safe to leave me in the Free Marches.

“Wycome is pretty far north,” Max tells me. “Most of the conflict is centered on Kirkwall and down into northern Ferelden but it is still pretty nasty up there.” I take his word for it. If it’s bad enough that he thinks he needs to cart his girlfriend around the continent with him, well, who am I to argue with that?

It’s kind of sweet, really.

When I tell him that he just looks at me and drawls, “Of course I’m sweet, sweetheart.”

So. Orphan raised by family member. Chef/waitress/barmaid in Wycome. Hooked up with a very edgy, striking looking fellow of dubious morality. Kept banging. Banging turned into more. Said fellow of dubious morality is sweet and protective.

As far as back stories go it’s definitely something I can live with.

The whole John Wick thing is only, like, sixty percent likely to cause some sort of hysterics in the future. Okay, seventy percent. Unless he kills someone in front of me and then it’ll probably be higher. Unless that someone is a demon, in which case I’d probably just applaud and offer the man a drink. Or a blowjob.

I turn the scone dough out onto a floured board and give it a few, quick turns with my fist before carefully patting it out into a vaguely uniform rectangle.

“You’re taking all of this rather well.”

I look up from where I’m cutting the scones into neat triangles and shrug. “How else am I supposed to take it?” I finally answer. “Freaking out would be emotionally satisfying – and trust me, I’m saving up all the crazy until I’ve got a moment to go completely cuckoo for cocoa puffs – but hysterics won’t do me any actual good. They won’t take me back or explain what happened. If anything, turning into a blubbering mess could potentially draw unwanted attention. Hysterics can wait.”

Right now my motto is _blend, blend, blend_.

Or at least to make myself useful. Useful is good. Useful doesn’t end up being dissected for science.

“Besides,” I continue because I really don’t want to think about this too long or I’ll be edging into dangerous territory, “life is short and then you die, so I intend to actually live it while I’ve got it. Bloom  where you’re planted and all that shit.” God, I hate that saying. I hate it with the heat of a thousand fiery suns and yet here it is, falling out of my mouth.

Someone just shoot me now.

Max stares at me for a long moment, gaze quiet and serious and at complete odds with the satisfied little smirk playing with the corner of his lips. “Well, as someone who has benefited immensely from your practicality, I can’t exactly find issues with that philosophy can I?”

“Nope.” I pop the _p_ and smirk a little at him. “Thank you, by the way,” I add after a beat, completely serious as I return to the worktable and start measuring out ingredients and dumping them into the bowl still dirtied by scone batter. I may have to put the hysterics off until later but stress baking works wonders as a coping mechanism. As does stress eating. Both are probably better than stress drinking.

_It’s five o’clock somewhere,_ I hum to myself, but I leave last night’s half empty bottle of whiskey sitting at the edge of the worktable.  Coping with alcohol isn’t really a rut I want to dig myself into.

“For what?”

I blink.

“For doing this,” I motion between us once I’ve managed to corral my wayward thoughts and drag them back to the matter at hand. “You didn’t have to and it sounds like they’ve” a vague gesture at the chantry uphill “sort of shoveled all of the recent shit onto your front porch and expected you to do something with it. I’m sorry about that.”

Max grimaces, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” The look I give him is less elegant and more… blunt. Like a hammer to the face. Or something, because he sighs, puts down his mug and leans forward. “Look,” he says. “I kill people and I enjoy it. You have to, at least a little, to do what I do. But the last week… that’s not _death_. It’s not _killing_. It’s just…”

“…a waste,” I murmur, thinking of the melted, cooked corpses I had walked past, of the bones that had crunched beneath my feet.

Max gives me an odd look. Like I’ve done something interesting, something unexpected. “Yes,” he agrees. “It was – _is_ – a bloody waste and I very much expected that I would be joining the corpse heap very soon. I just… I _needed_ there to be something, _someone_ , that I could actually save. Needed there to be at least one person that I could pull out of that nightmare.”

“I understand,” I murmur. And I do.

“And there you were amidst all that _waste_ in that absolutely ridiculous dress…”

“…hey!”

“…and you were so blighted feisty and _alive_.”

I blush, just a little. It probably says something when almost everyone I’ve met in this strange new world has called me _feisty_ or _mouthy_ or something similar, which I just don’t get. I mean sure, I know I can get a bit sassy but I’m really quite boring. My idea of a good night is a carton of chocolate fudge ripple and a _Friends_ marathon. And stretchy pants.

“...and I got to save you – save you, instead of killing you.”

“You do realize that you saved everyone in Haven? And surrounding areas, right? Eventually they’d all have suffered death by demons if you hadn’t closed that… _thing_.” I shiver because the Giant Fucking Hole in the Sky still gives me the heebie jeebies.

“I didn’t close it for them. They buried themselves in this hole, they can get themselves out of it.”

“You don’t mean that.”

 “I do,” he growls and I can feel something jump, snapping like a whip beneath my skin and I must make some sort of face because suddenly Max is looking away, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. “More than I should, anyway,” he corrects and stares down at his hands like he expects them to reveal the secrets of the universe to him.

I hesitate for a moment, fingers twitching with want before I decide, fuck it, I’m supposedly an adult and if I want to touch the man sleeping in my bed than I damn well will.

Max flinches a little at my touch even though a) he can clearly see me coming and b) doesn’t bother to stop me or move out of the way. I make some nonsensical soothing noise and gently brush my fingers over the yellowing bruises on his wrists. They had kept him bound, bound so tightly that even now after a couple of days and some of those revolting healing potion things there is still a rainbow painted on his flesh. Motherfucking bastards.

I wonder if they have some sort of magical bruise ointment. I make a note to ask at some point. But for now,

“Thank you for saving me,” I repeat, fierce and sincere, and he smiles at that – a slow, lazy thing that turns my brains into mush and makes my lady bits sit up and go _Yes. Please. Oh god._

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he drawls.

And I don’t doubt that he utterly, absolutely, means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blows dust off fic*
> 
> Ummm... so it's been a while? Like, _way_ longer than I'd meant to leave it. 
> 
> This chapter was originally supposed to cover the founding of the Inquisition but apparently Avery and Max _cannot stop talking_. The little shits. (I kinda, most definitely, love them. They're a delight inside my head. They're also obnoxious and I have a feeling that this sort of thing - where they insist that they have to do something before I can continue on with any plot - is going to be a regular occurrence.) 
> 
> So, next time: the founding of the Inquisition.  
> Spoilers: Max is so, _so_ not okay with things.


	10. Weapons of Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a lying liar face.  
> This chapter was getting long and kind of awkward seeming so I've split it up. Bonus - extra chapter for you! Downside - still no Inquisition. Instead, Max decided to angst all over the place.
> 
> aka - I should stop promising things unless I've got the chapter already written because clearly my characters just like to fuck with me.

Ellana finds us first, though _finds_ is probably the wrong word. Finds implies that we are hiding, which we aren’t. In fact, we’re sitting at the table by the cook stove eyeing the plate of scones that I have set down between us. They’re a little more golden than I would like. Cooking with wood heat is not something that I’m used to and the fudging on times and temperatures is a little more visible on a scone’s delicate surface versus the heartier nature of a rustic loaf. Still, not bad for a first batch, especially with the sweet, slightly smoky cherry reduction that I’d drizzled over the top. It’s not quite icing but I’d still eaten more than one warm spoonful while I’d been making it.

Quality control. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“Oh, it’s you.” Ellana slumps against the doorway leading out into the tavern proper, relief coloring her fine boned features. “I’d thought you were someone breaking in to try and steal the food.”

Ah, looting. A time honored tradition in realities everywhere.

“Nah, just us. We couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d so some baking. Get a start on the day and all that. Scone?” I wave motion at the pastries on the table. “There’s still some tea left. I think.”

And yeah, _finds_ is so not the right word. It implies a certain level of consciousness and though she’s up and walking Ellana is clearly, _clearly_ not alive and present. The lights are on but there’s nobody home. Something made all the clearer by the fact that she doesn’t say much more than “Creators bless you” before all but burying her face in the cup of tea and it isn’t until she’s finished it and half of the scone that I press into her hand before she stiffens and shoots upright. “… you said _us_.”

I tip my head at Max, who has steadily been growing more and amused the longer Ellana slouched against the work table and tried to get her brain online. Ellana stares at him for a moment and then her pale eyes widen comically and her jaw literally drops.

“Oh, Creators, you’re him! You’re the… the… Herald of Andraste!”

Max’s amusement falls from his face like a pat of butter off a stack of hot pancakes.

“No,” he says sharply, pressing his lips together. The mark on his hand, of course, picks that moment to flare up like a dash of brandy exposed to an open flame. “I’m not,” he mutters as all three of us stare at his hand.

“But you…”

 “…Am just a man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and is apparently being deified for having my ass hauled up a mountain into a demon infested battlefield.”

“But you…”

Max’s glare is enough to murder even the most sincere of protests.

Ellana falls silent, eyeing him with something that could be awe. Or it could be fear. Probably a bit of both with a dash of bewilderment thrown in for good measure.

“Well,” I say with a clap of my hands. “What a lovely way to begin the morning. Let’s try again, shall we? Max, dear, this is Ellana. Ellana, Max. She’s sweet, but can’t cook to save her life,” I tell him, “and he’s a mean, sarcastic little shit but he’s also a great cuddler and a fantastic kisser. I mean, seriously, _damn_. So it all balances out, you know?”

Now they’re both staring at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

Excellent.

I pluck one of the pastries off the plate and hold it out towards Ellana. “Scone?”

After a moment’s hesitation she gingerly steps forward and takes it from my hand, my mind drawing parallels between some sort of frightened animal  edging past a terrifying predator to get to the tasty treat on the other side. I don’t laugh. Max might have, though. Just a little.

I kick him under the table.

Gently, of course, because he’s still looking a little gray around the edges.

“Did you just _kick_ me?”

“Mmm. Of course, babe,” I demur with a wink and a smirk and tangle our fingers together so that I can brush a kiss across the back of his hand. “Somebody has to keep you in line.”

“Trouble,” Max mutters under his breath. “You’re nothing but trouble.” But the tension in his face has softened a bit, the combination of touch and fresh pastries enough to leech the unwelcome anger from his veins. Fuck nuclear warheads, give me a hostile situation and I’ll choose a plate of baked goods to carry into battle every single time.  

He lets out a shaky breath and returns the gesture, the warmth of his breath against my skin making me shiver as he meets my gaze. There’s a sort of hopeful fondness there and a grateful exasperation.

“Oh. _Oh_! You… I’d heard… they’d said…but…” Ellana doesn’t finish a single one of her thoughts but she’s understandable all the same.

I shrug. “Even gossips are right some of the time. More tea?”

Ellana seesaws between scared little rabbit and the rambling, kind hearted, strong willed woman I’d met yesterday but she takes the bull by the horns and eventually takes my seat at the table to finish off her breakfast. She and Max even talk for a few minutes while I set about whipping up more bread dough and, after a moment’s consideration, more scones because I imagine that this isn’t the only time that feathers are going to get ruffled over the fucking _Herald of Andraste_ issue. Peace through pastry, one tired, hangry person at a time.

Or something like that.

God, I need caffeine.

Eventually, Ellana takes her leave, murmuring something about waking Varric and dragging him off to hunt with her again.

Not going to lie, I’m kind of curious to see what weird ass creature she brings back this time.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra finds us next. And yes, _finds_ is definitely the right word where the steely woman is concerned.

Her entrance is exactly like her: striking, loud, and a little off putting.

She nearly takes the door off the hinges as she shoves it open and stands in the doorway with her sword in one hand and glares into the kitchen. “There you are,” she growls, shoving her sword back into its case and crossing her arms over her chest.

Max looks up from where he’s eating his second scone and raises an eyebrow. I’d tried to get him to continue eating toast or something equally easy going on the stomach before he completely overdid it on richer things but he’d shot that suggestion down in about half a second. Mainly by simply grabbing a still cooling scone off of the platter I’d been laying them on and shoving at least half of it in his mouth.

“Yes,” he drawls, “I’m sitting in the tavern across from the house that I’ve been staying in. Clearly, I’m trying to hide from you.” I cough to cover a huff of laughter and Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. “Surely your guard is not so incompetent that he didn’t see me _walk into the building across from him_.”

Cassandra sputters.

I choke.

Max shoots me that lazy grin that makes my insides tremble. That grin should be fucking illegal.

Oh, look. Scone dough. I should take care of that. Maybe make another batch. Or something. Anything to not look Cassandra in the face until I’ve got the giggles burning in my chest under some semblance of control. Because I’m pretty sure that if I laugh in her face, harmless or not, she’ll probably eviscerate me.

Cassandra is kind of scary.

She’s also, most definitely, _not amused._

“I was under the impression that I was no longer considered a prisoner,” Max drawls once it becomes clear that Cassandra is momentarily incapable of anything more than disgusted noises and glaring unhappily. “Unless you’ve come to slap on some irons and return me to the lovely dungeon beneath the chantry.”

“No. I… I am still not sure what happened to cause this,” and by _this_ I assume she means the Big Fucking Hole in the Sky and demons and all that mess, “but if what we heard in the Temple is true you tried to help the Divine – and you _did_ help us. Even though you had no reason too.” Cassandra looks a bit like she’s sucking on a lemon at that but there’s something there on her face and itching against my skin that makes me think that she’s mind numbingly grateful over the whole thing. That she considers herself in Max’s debt and that _that_ is what she doesn’t like.

Well, tough luck buttercup.

The man had just literally saved them all from being devoured by demons like some sort of sweet n' salty snack. The least Cassandra could do is not be a dick about it.

“Well that’s good to know,” Max slumps back down in his chair, leaning back against the wall as he takes another bite of his scone. I should probably scrounge up something with actual protein for him or he is going to crash so hard in about an hour.

“You will come to the chantry,” Cassandra manages to grit out without growling. “There are things which we must discuss.”

“No.”

“ _No_?”

Max waves at the platter of scones. “I’m eating.”

Cassandra’s lips press so tightly together that I’m kind of afraid for her jaw. “Well. When you are _done_ , you will…”

“No.”

Oh. That came out of my mouth. Way to go Avery, let’s poke the fuming dragon.

“I beg pardon?”

Cassandra’s looking at me like some half mangled bug clinging to the bottom of her boot. I look up from putting the latest – and last – batch of scones into the oven. “He saved your ass – and everyone else’s – the other day. He’s been conscious for less than a handful of hours. You can come to him.”

“We don’t…”

“Let me guess. It’s you and the Fearsome Threesome that want to sit down and chat with him, right? Leliana, Josephine, and the Commander?” I clarify when she gives me a rather blank – if completely disgusted – look. She jerks her chin. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. Bring them here. The kitchen’s warmer and I have food.”

She exhales sharply. “I don’t think…”

“Oh, for the love of... do you really think that he’s not going to tell me what you say anyway?”

Cassandra glares. Max shrugs one shoulder and tips his head in a _she’s not wrong_ gesture. Bless him.

“ _Fine_ ,” Cassandra grinds out, nostrils flaring. “I will be back.”

I may have done my best Schwarzenegger impression as she slammed the door behind her.

Possibly.

Probably.

Fuck, who am I kidding.

Absolutely.

Oh, god, I have no sense of self preservation. None. Fantastic.

“So,” I ask after a minute. “How do you feel about an omelet?”

 

* * *

 

Well. This is awkward. And terrifying. Definitely terrifying.

“Easy,” I murmur and slowly move around the overturned chair to carefully lay my hand against the curve of Max’s bicep. “Easy,” I repeat softly. “He’s not a threat,” I add but I’m careful to not step around Max to stand between them. Especially since Max has a knife in each hand. I’m not that stupid. Not yet.

Though, damn, I can’t believe everything went south so fast. The Commander hadn’t even gotten all the way through the fucking door before the weapons had come out and I’d been half pushed, half thrown to the other side of the work table, putting both man and furniture between myself and the other man entering the kitchen. It’s kind of touching in its own twisted, rather horrifying way.

“Yes, he is.” Max’s words are little more than a growl but at least he’s responding to me. That’s… good. Definitely good. I softly rub circles against his arm, trying to gage the tension lying in the muscles underneath. He’s coiled like a pressed spring.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

And _fuck_ , just for good measure.

I am so, so not awake enough for this. Or caffeinated enough.

“Trevelyan, you are being ridiculous!” Cassandra snaps and oh, for some battle hardened wench she surely is lacking in the people skills. I mean, I’m not a shining example there either, clearly, but even I know not to get pissy at a man who is hanging on to his self-control by his fingertips. “This is…”

“I know exactly who this is. _Knight Captain_ ,” Max interrupts, spitting the final two words out with such vehemence that the Commander reels back from them like a physical blow. “And I know exactly what he is capable of. You are lucky my sister was taken to the circle in Ostwick,” his fingers twitch against the handle of the knife and I tighten my fingers on his arm, ever so slightly. “If she had gone to Kirkwall there is nothing that would keep your blood off of my hands.”

The room is utterly silent. Cassandra, bless her heart, looks like she wants to butt in again but Leliana silences her with touch to the back of her hand and a tilt of her head. Josephine also looks like she wants to interfere, like she wants to march over and yank them back to the table, sit them down and force them to talk about things like _feelings_ and _experiences_ and possibly _reparations_   but she doesn’t move either, her lips pressed in a thin line in her pretty face as she watches. Kudos to her for having some actual brains inside her head.

I take a deep breath and try to figure out what the hell I need to do. Because it has to be me. I can feel it in the currents of the room. I’m the only one that’s going to be able to get Max to stand down. Which is terrifying. Especially because I have no fucking clue what is going on here.

Max is… well. Max is clearly a hair trigger away from stabbing the Commander and Cullen… fuck. Cullen looks like shit. Going by the giant purple smudges under his eyes I doubt he’s slept a single second since yesterday and he’d been pale the last time I saw him but whatever little color had been left to him had promptly drained out of his face when Max had spit that title at him. _Knight Captain_. I turn it over in my head. Military, _clearly_ , but there’s something there – some significance to it that I’m failing to grasp.

Jesus Christ on some flatbread, my crash course in history and culture is so, _so_ not up to par for this situation.

Okay, Avery. Think. Or feel. Or something before this all goes sideways.

Oh god, I am so not equipped for this.

“Max,” I murmur, stroking my hand down his arm. “He’s not going to hurt me.”

“He will,” and the assassin is absolutely one hundred and ten percent sure about that. “I am safe enough because what I am – and am not – is well documented.” The _and I would have no qualms turning him into mincemeat_ goes unsaid but let’s be honest, everyone in the fucking room hears it. “But you…”

“We’ve already met. The Co… Cullen and I,” I push out in a rush of air and at that Max’s eyes finally flicker in my direction.

“ _What_?”

“We’ve already met. There may have been some yelling. I may have tried to slap him. We smoothed things over. I gave him tea,” I add after a pause. Because clearly that is the important information to impart.

Max snorts, just a little. “Of course you did,” he sighs with weary affection. Cassandra’s staring at me again, those gray eyes all flinty and yeah, I can see it now. We don’t exactly act like people that have interacted less than a handful of times. But hey, if it ain't broke... “You’re going to conquer the world with tea and baked goods, aren’t you?”

“Oh no,” I deadpan, “my evil plot has been discovered. Whatever shall I do.”

His lips twitch and beneath my touch I can feel some of the tension leaving his arm. He’s trembling, ever so slightly, because he’s still recovering and expending too much energy, the dumb little shit, but I don’t mention it.

“He’s not a threat,” I whisper again, willing him to hear me. Don’t get me wrong, I get the feeling – Max reaction aside – that Cullen is quite dangerous. He’s clearly the leader of the local military forces. The man’s got a sword strapped to his waist for fuck’s sake and he’s certainly large enough to simply crush me but I don’t think he’s going to. I’m pretty sure. I can still feel it, if I think about it, the swimming tides of blackness that make my stomach heave and every joint in my body scream with agony. I can still feel it on him, coating him like some black tar, an oozing pestilence that refuses to let go.

“He is,” Max repeats calmly. “He is the Knight Captain of Kirkwall.” And that tells me jack shit.

“Not from around here,” I remind him gently. “You’re going to have to give me the cliff notes, babe.”

“He is the leader of the Templars stationed in Kirkwall. Or close enough, given that the Knight Commander was utterly out of her mind before she got turned to stone.”

My mind gets stuck on the _turned to stone_ bit for a minute before I can get at the real meat of the statement: _Templar_.

_You are lucky my sister was taken to the circle in Ostwick._

It takes me a few more minutes but I get there.

“Oh,” I breathe in sudden understanding when what I really want to do is swear a blue streak. I don’t think that’s going to help anything right now though. Of course, it's not like  _that_ has ever stopped me. “Your sister is a mage.”

And the Commander is a Templar. From Kirkwall. Where everything bad was made worse. Where the entire world went to shit.

“Was,” he corrects tightly. “Evie was killed when Ostwick fell.”

“ _Oh_!” Josephine’s hand flies to her lips, covering them before more can leak past them.

Shit.

No wonder he seems to hate the Templars. It’s personal.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath.

“I have many regrets. My biggest is that I let my fear turn me into a monster.” The Commander’s hoarse words make the entire room flinch, even Max. “I… I am no longer a Templar,” he adds. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t be a part of that anymore. Not… not after… everything.”

“And that makes it better?”

“N-no,” Cullen stutters out, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. “But I’m trying. Maker’s breath, I want to try. To be different.”

Max glares and clearly, this is not helping things so I carefully – so goddamn carefully – slip under Max’s arm and place a hand on his chest.

Oh god, why can’t I have a sense of self preservation.

“Okay. Okay. Good. Trying is good,” I soothe. “Why don’t we all just take a deep breath and put this shit on the back burner for a bit, yeah? _Cullen_ ,” and I’m very careful to stress his name and not his rank, “looks like he’s about to fall over. You haven’t bothered to sleep or eat since yesterday, have you?” I steal a glance over my shoulder at the blonde just in time to see him shake his head. Slowly. Carefully. Like it hurts.

“I… no.”

“Thought not. You look like shit. Sit and I’ll get you some tea.” Cullen doesn’t move and I roll my eyes.

Max, of course, growls.

I swear to god I’m going to slap them both.

“I’m not sure that is wise, my lady.”

I count to ten.

Twice.

“Max. He’s not a threat.” And fuck me sideways, but I’m getting really tired of repeating myself. I’ve got stuff to do. He’s got stuff to do. Everyone else has stuff to do. For the love of Chuck can we just _do it_?

Patience, I tell myself.

Fuck, we’re screwed. Patience is so not my strong point.

“He’s barely able to stand upright. Let the poor bastard sit. Let everyone talk. Okay?” I don’t mention that he looks like shit also. It just seems like it would be bad manners, especially because he’s defending my honor or life or something like that. “And it’s _Avery_. None of this ‘my lady’ bullshit. I guarantee you there is no one on this planet – or any other – that’s going to be mistaking me for a _lady_.”

The noise that Cassandra makes is either disgusted or amused. Or both. Probably both.

“ _Cullen is not going to hurt me_ ,” I repeat as patiently and carefully as I can without sounding like a condescending bitch. “Are you?” I toss another look back at the armor bedecked dreamboat.

“No,” he replies instantly. “As long as she is not a threat to those around her, La… Avery… has nothing to fear from me.”

“See? Nothing to fear. We’re golden. And the scones need to be glazed, so sit down.”

Max doesn’t look like he believes us but he takes a deep breath and slips the knives back into whatever super-secret pocket things he keeps them stashed in.

“Fine,” he agrees harshly. “As long as he behaves himself he has nothing to fear from me.” The grin he gives Cullen is wide and bright and sharp, full of too many teeth and scarce contained violence. “But if you harm her, I promise you, _Cullen_ , that I will strangle you with your own intestines.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

I drop my forehead to Max’s chest and sigh.

So, so fucking awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, question time. Input time. Whatever we want to call it. Gather 'round glorious readers...
> 
> 1) If you've got anything you want to see in regards to the Hinterlands (Does Avery go at all? WTF do you want her to get up to while there? etc etc) or any encounters in the early Haven days now is the time to hit me up with requests and off the wall suggestions. If not I'm going to just continue to let them do whatever they want...
> 
> 2) I've been meaning to ask... do you fine people want me to slap relationship pairings on this thing? Because there are a few that I definitely know we'll be hitting (haha... oh god, I haven't had enough sleep and am apparently 11 years old) and then whatever other pairings end up finding their way into this thing. Basically, do you want warning for the ones I already know about or do you not care in the slightest?
> 
> Also, your comments and kudos are love. You are amazing. Seriously.


	11. Fat on the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken over 47,000 words to get to the actual founding of the Inquisition. I honestly don't know whether to be impressed with myself or terrified.

Sweet baby Jesus, fucking awkward does not _begin_ to cover it. Not even a little bit. There is less coverage going on here than Mama June in a bikini. This is, without a doubt, the tensest, most awkward moment of my life – and I’ve sat through meals with Stephen and Carol. Hell, I’ve sat through a meal with Stephen and Carol and the business associate that Stephen had been blowing in the coat closet less than five minutes previously.

The very _vocal_ business associate.

With a daddy kink.

_This_ is more awkward than _that_.

A different type of awkwardness to be sure but still more awkward. 

I’m not sure if it’s the looks that Cassandra keeps shooting me, like somehow this shit is my fault - and like she’s still contemplating tossing me out like an errant puppy who has discovered the joy of chewing on designer shoes - or the way that Max keeps looking at Cullen, like he’s still only two seconds away from leaping across the table and killing the ashen faced Commander with his teacup.  It could also be the way that Josephine is acting like absolutely nothing is happening. Seriously, girl’s got skills.

Leliana, on the other hand, just looks amused. Of course, she is hands down the most dangerous person in this room so she can do whatever the fuck she wants.

 I tuck the edges of the dough under one more time and then set it in line to rise with the others and dust of my hands. Eight balls of dough stare back at me. I should probably think of something else to make at this point. Porridge, of the not overcooked variety, a drizzle of the slightly sweet and smoky syrup I’d discovered will do for anyone that shows up looking for breakfast. I figure the leftover scones can be used to bribe the particularly miserable looking. Something else is needed for the rest of the day, though, and given that I a) have absolutely no idea what Ellana is going to bring me b) it’s still as cold as fuck out there I should probably just bow to the inevitable and make some sort of soup or stew again. Or maybe some sort of pot pie.

I eye the oven speculatively and then shelve that idea for tomorrow. I know myself well enough to know that eventually I’m going to crash – too little sleep, too much stress, and too much cooking. Much as I love it, eventually the exhaustion of it catches up with you all sneaky like. Usually when you’re faced with a complete wreck of a kitchen and a veritable mountain of dirty dishes.

So. Pot pie tomorrow. Probably. Soup today. Maybe something with those beans…

“The Breach is stable but still a threat,” and I daresay that exactly no one is surprised by the fact that Cassandra is the one to break the silent stalemate. “We can’t ignore that.”

No argument from me. Duct tape and plastic wrap will only work for so long before it shreds.

“Let me guess – you need my help.”

I blink and look up from where I’m wiping the last little bit of flour off the work surface to find Cassandra staring at Max, arms crossed over her chest and lips settled in a firm line. Max looks entirely unsurprised by this turn of events. That makes one of us at least. Weren’t they just holding him all chained up in some dungeon of doom? Why would they want his help?

The Mark sputters and hisses like flame against water, flashes of green flaring out from Max’s palm where it’s curled against his mug.

Oh.

Yeah.

_That._

“As of yet, you are the only thing that has proven effective against the Breach,” Cassandra points out, echoing my thoughts. “And the Breach is not the only threat we face. We are receiving reports of other rifts popping into existence all across the Hinterlands and I doubt they will stop there.”

“In addition, _someone_ was behind the explosion at Conclave. Someone that Most Holy did not expect – that _I_ did not expect,” Leliana adds and oh, I can hear how much that rankles her. There is a fierce, quiet fury buried beneath the wisps of sorrow and the careful blankness of her input. There is not enough money on this earth or my own to get me to trade places with the bastard that made everything go boom. If Leliana ever gets her hands on them it is not going to be… pleasant. For them at least. “Perhaps they died with the others. Perhaps not. Perhaps they have allies that yet live.”

There’s something in her voice that makes my little lizard hind brain sit up and pay attention. Quietly, I make myself small and start dicing onions. Despite Cassandra’s protests I’m still here but I’m sure as hell going to try and make them forget that fact.

_Be quiet. Be still. Let the predator pass you by._

“You still think I did it,” Max murmurs, tipping his head to the side and oh, boy, if looks could kill… Leliana gives him a look that is equally murderous and measuring.

“No,” she says simply. “I don’t. But we would be fools if we didn’t expect everyone outside of Haven to still think that. The fact is that we don’t know who they are or what they want but it is eminently clear that they are willing to do anything to get it.”

“I do not think you did it either. I was there in the temple. I heard the memory of Most Holy call out to you and you… you tried to help,” Cassandra acknowledges wearily. “You _did_ help us. I cannot believe it is all coincidence.”

Max snorts. “What else would it be? A _miracle_?” he practically spits, lips curling in a wordless snarl that makes Cullen twitch uneasily in his chair.

“Providence,” Cassandra agrees instantly with a nod of her head. “The Maker sent you to us in our darkest hour.”

“Fuck the Maker,” Max snaps. And it’s rather amazing how fast Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen lose the color in their faces at that. “Two days ago you wanted me dead. Bloody void, two days ago you would have done it yourself and now you’re saying I’m your fucking _savior_?”

If Cassandra’s lips get pressed any thinner she’s going to break something. Like her face. “I was wrong then. Maybe I still am,” she adds with a clench of her jaw. “However, I will not pretend that you were not exactly what we needed when we needed it. I know not what to call that except providence.”

“Luck? Bad timing?” Max drawls, his voice completely at odd with the tension still coiled in his body. “Don’t know what to tell you but I’m pretty sure there was nothing divine involved in this whole mess.”

Men have never needed gods to wreck destruction. Gods just make for handy excuses. Apparently that's another truth that transcends realities.

“ _Regardless_ ,” Leliana breaks in before Cassandra can say something else, “the Breach remains and your Mark is our only hope of closing it.”

“And how do you propose doing that? Going to slap me in irons unless I do your bidding? Going to haul me before a tribunal? String me up until I swing?” He jerks his head at Cullen and adds, “Let the Knight Captain take my head off like he’s been dreaming of doing since we sat down? No? I assume you’ve got some sort of plan besides _‘Have Maxwell Trevelyan stand at the top of a mountain and wave his hand at the sky’_.” He looks around the table, eyebrow raised in mocking, blatant question.

After a moment in which the other four occupants of the table share a brief glance Josephine reaches down, pulls a large book from the bag she had carried in with her, and sets it on the tabletop. It is a simple thing, carefully bound in brown leather and titled in a golden stamp of ink that I cannot read. The only notable thing about it, save for its size, is the pattern embossed on the front cover: a flaming eye pierced with a sword.

Lovely.

At the sight of it Max goes completely, utterly, mind bogglingly still. For a moment he just stares at the book, jaw clenched, and fingers tight around the ceramic curve of his mug. And then he laughs. Not in a _funny ha-ha_ sort of way but more of a _they’re coming to take me away ha-ha_ way. It’s loud and brash and bitter, full of broken glass and sharp surprise.

It makes my fucking skin crawl.

“Oh, Justinia,” Max sighs when he finally regains control of his voice, “you were a crafty, _crafty_ bitch.”

Cassandra’s out of her seat and halfway across the table before Leliana and Cullen manage to restrain her, manhandling her back into her chair as she snarls, “How _dare_ …!” It takes a bit to get her back on her ass. Partly because the woman’s probably about fifty times stronger than she looks – and let’s be honest, with that look on her face if someone told me that she could snap a steel beam like a toothpick I’d believe them no questions asked – and partly because I don’t think that Leliana is actually trying very hard to contain her. There’s just enough effort there to make it look real and to keep the furious woman from doing Max and real physical harm. Josephine’s making some noises about everyone needing to calm down but no one’s really listening. Actually, I’m not sure anyone else can really hear her over the force of Cassandra’s snarling.

Max just laughs again and leans back in his chair until his hair is cascading like an ebony waterfall down his back and swaying with the force of the biting mirth rumbling out of his chest. “Fuck the Conclave, _this_ was her plan all along wasn’t it?”

“That is ridiculous! Most Holy wished to resolve things peacefully…”

“Really?” Max asks with a raised eyebrow. “Military. Intelligence. Diplomacy,” he snaps out, pointing at Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine in turn. “And a head for the spear the Divine wished to throw,” he nods at Cassandra, his voice flat. “And _that_ ,” he nods once more, this time at the book sitting on the table. “You can protest all you want, Seeker, but for that to be binding – and I’ve no doubt that it is – the Divine herself had to write it with all the markers required of her station. Last I checked you didn’t have Justinia stashed in a room somewhere. If you do, then you and I will be having words about those days I spent locked in the chantry’s dungeon.”

Fuck me with a side of fries.

Just.

_Fuck._

I have no idea what the hell is going on here. None whatsoever. I mean I can catch the basics but once again I’m in possession of far too little knowledge to actually make sense of the shit storm hitting the metaphorical fan right before my eyes.

Whatever it is, though, it ain’t pretty.

The four of them watch Max, predators the lot of them, and though Cassandra’s mouth opens and closes like a beached fish no one actually says anything. “Well that’s good to know. If I’m going to be accused of murder it better be one I’ve actually committed.” Josephine makes a noise that best resembles someone strangling a cat – oh god, that’s a horrible metaphor, what the fuck did the poor cat do? – and I don’t know whether to laugh or facepalm with feeling. I don’t actually do either one, mainly because I’m still trying to be quiet and discreet so that Cassandra doesn’t disembowel me with her disapproval.

It probably says something unsavory about me that my first instinct is to laugh over murder. Because I really, really doubt that he’s joking. Because, you know, _assassin_.

I still can’t believe that’s an actual thing. But at the same time I do. He’d certainly been more than willing to murder Cullen about five minutes ago – and able, judging by the way he moved. Not that I had any knowledge of fighting beyond what action movies have taught me so, really, I know shit.

“So, lets recap,” murmurs Max softly. Across the table Cullen flinches. “The Circles have fallen, the Templars have rebelled against the chantry and are hunting the mages down like rapid dogs, the peace talks have been destroyed in a truly impressive feat of terrorism, the Divine and the rest of the upper clergy have been killed, and you are _resurrecting the bloody Inquisition._ ” His words hit me like a ton of breaks, dropping through my gut like an elevator with its lines cut. What the fuck have I fallen into the middle of? Weren’t the demons and magic and lack of central heat and Netflix enough?

“That is the lay of the land, is it not?” Max asks even as I lose my cool enough to growl, “ _What the fuck is wrong with you people?”_ under my breath.

Or, at least I thought it was under my breath. Apparently not.

Whoops.

Cassandra is… not pleased, either by my comment or by the simple reminder that I am actually in the room. Cullen, well, frankly I’m not sure how he’s still standing. Sitting. Whatever. He’s not gone gray in the skin yet but it’s probably only a matter of time. He also does not look surprised. He, apparently, did not forget that I was in here with them. Props to the Commander. Josephine, on the other hand, _does_ look surprised – not at my presence but at my words. Clearly she sees nothing wrong with the comment and/or deems it an appropriate summary of events. Leliana’s got me under a narrow, hawk-like stare that I am pointedly ignoring because once again _I’m not that stupid_.

Or at least, that’s what I try to tell myself. Honestly, the jury’s still out.

Max on the other hand is blatantly amused, the corner of his lips twitching as he looks over at me. Despite that there’s something in his face, a tension in his jaw and a shadow hovering in his eyes that both steadies me and makes me inhale sharply.

_Be careful_ , it says. _I’ve got you_ , it promises.

It’s probably unhealthy that I believe him.

Of course, I’m on an alien world complete with demons and magic so really a possibly unhealthy codependent relationship is probably the least of my worries.

“I hardly think that you are in position to comment on…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I wave the knife in my hand like some sort of baton, interrupting Cassandra as I stare at them. “Look. I am not claiming to be an expert on _anything_ except for possibly how to dice a goddamn onion. Clearly, your… Thedas… is currently a giant clusterfuck of problems. No judging,” I add hastily, holding my hands out in a calming gesture, which is probably not very calming because I’ve still got an eight inch chef’s knife held in one hand. Of course. “Like, zero judging because my world isn’t doing much better on that front. We just hide it beneath Netflix and fanfiction and Lady Gaga concerts.”

And, oh look, a sea of blank, uncomprehending faces. Right. Thedas, not Earth. Ix-nay the modern lingo. Jesus.

“Okay. Look. I get that the world is shitty and right now you’re tripping and falling all over the place because you’ve been caught with your pants around your ankles. _I get it_. But is throwing fat on the fire the right thing to do?” More blank looks. I sigh. “Unless _Inquisition_ means something different here?”

I raise an eyebrow at Max.

“The original Inquisition was founded after the first Blight and its original purpose was to defend Thedas from rogue magics and heretics,” he answers shortly, flexing his fingers against opposing biceps with enough force that I can see his knuckles going white from over here. “Eventually they allied themselves with the Chantry and split into two separate organizations: the Templars and the Seekers of Truth. Lady Pentaghast here is a member of the latter.” He tips his head at Cassandra. “With the split the Inquisition was formally dissolved and the Circles rose in its place.”

I blink.

There’s a lot there I don’t understand – what the fuck is a Blight? Between the name and the way Max says it I’m guessing it’s nothing good– but unfortunately the rest of it is pretty easy to follow. Shit. I’m no historian but I managed to stay awake through my high school courses and I catch the occasional documentary on the history channel just like every other insomniac.

Sadly, Inquisition does not mean something different here. Not really.

“So it’s a religious military organization that hunts down those that don’t believe the same thing they do,” I summarize flatly, glaring. “Yeah, we had one of those too. Fuck it, we still have it in various incarnations. Do you really think that throwing _that_ into the fucking mix is going to solve _anything_?”

“She’s not wrong.” Max drawls, not giving them the chance to respond. “So I ask again – do you actually have a plan or is this going to turn into a bastardized Divine March? Because I can tell you right now that I will _let this world burn_ before I help you wipe the slate clean and restore things to the way they were.”

“The Divine wished for a neutral force to resolve the conflict,” Josephine’s soft voice cuts in a way that Cassandra’s harsh denouncements and Leliana’s fierce disapproval fail to do so. Not going to lie, I give the pretty lady a bit of a side eye at that because _really?_ In what universe does a _religious military force_ equal a _neutral force_? Judging by the look on Max’s face he clearly inhabits a similar line of thought.

“I am not helping you start a holy war,” he spits and it’s almost comical when everyone else flinches as the mark on his hands spits too.

“I know it seems counter intuitive to introduce another faction into the mix but as you have said – the circles have fallen, the Templars are abusing their powers and can no longer be counted on, the Free Marches are in turmoil, Orlais is in the midst of a civil war, Ferelden is still struggling to stabilize itself after the Blight and its own civil war, and now the power of the chantry lies in shambles,” Josephine continues calmly. “Nevara has never been overly interested in what happens beyond its borders but Tevinter and Antiva are already moving to take advantage of the turmoil in varying blatant and subtle ways.  It is also only a matter of time until the Qun becomes involved.”

The silence in the kitchen clearly says that _that_ would not be a particularly pleasant option.

“Justinia saw the need for a powerful organization that could bridge the gaps between all of the pieces. Something that was not subjugated to any one country and was not part of the chantry but was still in a position where it could wield a great deal of political and martial power. She saw need for an organization that could play against both church and country and _win_ ,” Josephine sighs and looks down at the book still sitting on the table. “She thought that the Inquisition might fill that role.”

Max and I look at each other. I have no idea what he is thinking beyond the narrowed focus of his eyes but I… shit. I still think something called the Inquisition of all things is probably a bad plan but at the same time… I press my lips together. Well. At the same time the idea behind it sounds relatively sound if probably too optimistic.

 “Crafty bitch,” Max mutters again and ignores the way that Cassandra growls at him.

“It will not be easy,” Leliana adds. “It would have not been easy even had Conclave not been destroyed. Our resources are limited…”

“…and our meager forces have already been decimated,” Cullen puts in wearily, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“And with Justinia’s death it is likely that what remains of the chantry will oppose us instead of working with us,” Josephine finishes.

“We don’t have any other choice,” Leliana says firmly, fixing her stare on Max. “If we do not act now then I fear Thedas will never recover. We must do this and we need you by our side.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” Leliana retorts. “Word of what you have done here will spread and whether you like it or not you _are_ our only hope of closing the rifts.”

_Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope._

I don’t snort. I don’t. But it’s pretty damn close.

Oh god, I’m such an awful person.

“I am not a hero, Leliana. I am not a _savior_ ,” warns Max. “Do not think that just because we share a mentor and a skill set that you can look at me and find Tabris in my place. I am nothing like her.”

At that Leliana laughs, high and bitter, riding the edge of hysteria until I can see the tears beading in the corners of her eyes. “No, _no_ , you are not.” She closes her eyes and a single tear slips past the barrier of her lashes, dripping down her face with a reserved poignancy that makes my heart ache, the sudden urge to cross the room and hug her, to burying her face in my chest and stroke her hair while uttering soothing nonsense so strong that my fingers itch with it. “No, you’re not,” she repeats quietly, “but that does not mean that you do not have a part of your own to play.”

“And what part is that?”

Josephine leans forward, smiling, “In addition to the Mark, you have a unique skillset…”

Max snorts. “Please, darling. Lady Nightingale knows just about as many ways to kill a person as I do and she's been doing it longer.”

The lovely, bird like one inhales sharply and I can practically hear her counting to ten in her head. “It is not your ability as an assassin that we speak of, though I daresay your talents will find their uses in a setting as violent as ours. No, you are intelligent, stealthy, a scholar in your own right, and well versed in politics, secrets, and world events. All of us,” she motions at her companions, “have these skills in varying measures but you possess something that is predominately lacking – neutrality.”

“If you think for one bloody moment…”

She holds up a hand, instantly stalling the scoffing protest hovering on Max’s lips. “Or, rather, a lack of _binding_ connections. Leliana and Cassandra are formidable but they are too closely linked to the chantry, the Seekers, and Justinia. No one will ever quite believe that they are acting as an independent force. Likewise, you have proven that Commander Cullen’s reputation is well known. His competence and training buys us some much needed legitimacy while his vocal renouncement of his place and membership in the Templar order publically buys us some breathing distance but behind closed doors many will find it impossible to think of him as anything but the Knight Captain. I, myself, am too neutral. The bulk of the problems are centered in Orlais and Ferelden and I am from Antiva, from a family with no close ties to the Chantry."

She leans towards Max again. “You, on the other hand… You are from the Free Marches, were trained in Antiva, and spent much of the ensuing years in Ferelden and Orlais. You are a member of the nobility which lends you influence in certain circles and your abilities as an assassin lend you credibility in others. You are known to have no formal ties to any organization or creed. You are a pair of fresh eyes and would be a… _balancing_ … force to our council.” She adds the last part delicately, shooting almost apologetic glances at the rest of her companions.

Cassandra makes a low noise of disgust but Cullen’s lips twitch and the life that such a simple thing brings to his exhausted face is spectacular. And stunning.

Jesus, Avery, now is  _not_ the time.

Max meets her stare with a flinty one of his own, clearly not buying it, his fingers tapping against his arm with repressed agitation. “And who would head this _council_? Who would you trust with fixing the mess you have found yourselves in?”

The four exchange another look. “There was… someone that caught Most Holy’s attention but he has proven to be difficult to locate.”

“We had hoped that Justinia could persuade one of his known associates to help us locate him but…” Josephine shakes her head.

Max stares at them for a beat and then lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “That’s what you were doing in Kirkwall,” he announces with all surety of a man who has finally put all of the pieces of the puzzle together. He motions at Cassandra. “You were looking for…” he shakes his head, laughing again. “Maker’s balls, Tethras – you thought Varric _fucking_ Tethras would roll on the Champion of Kirkwall? I take everything I’ve said back… _that_ is the most stupid thing you have said to me.”

I can’t help but agree with that assessment. I mean, I’ve known Varric for two days, almost three, and even I could tell you that the dwarf isn’t the type of man to sell out his friends. Not for love or money. Or to save the fucking world.

Priorities.

Cassandra snarls, “He is being _stubborn_ …!”

“No,” Max corrects sharply, “he is being _loyal_ and Thedas could use a great deal more of it. So, if not the Champion, who will be leading your glorious campaign?”

“All of us. Together.” Leliana gives him a pointed look.

“And if I don’t want to be involved in it? In any of this?” Max waves his hand in a motion that incorporates the four, the kitchen, and the world beyond.

“You are already involved,” Cassandra points out harshly.

Max gives an arrogant shrug. “Not by choice. Just a bit of bad luck from where I'm sitting.”

“I think,” Cullen murmurs, speaking up from where he is huddled in the shadows, his fingers wrapped in a death grip around his mug and his half-finished scone still sitting in front of him. He needs to eat, damn it, eat and sleep and _something_. He needs something. I can feel it, like a hum against my skin, a soft zap of static. Whatever it is though, I don’t think he’s going to find it here.

I’m not sure any of them are going to find what they need here.

“I think that we are out of choices,” the ex-Templar murmurs.

The silence is choking, a coiled vice around all of our necks squeezing until there’s nothing left.

It shatters with a crash, the pieces of Max’s mug exploding out from where he’s thrown it against the wall. The noise is loud, abrasive, and both Cullen and Cassandra are up, with their weapons half drawn by the time I get to Max, my fingers wrapping around his – shaking, cold, fuck but he’s so damn cold – and letting him slump into my chest, his laughter muffled by the fabric of my shirt.

I have no memory of moving. No realization of what has happened until his fingers are entwined with mine.

“It’s alright,” I murmur, kissing the top of his head. “It will be okay.”

It’s not and it won’t and we both know it.

I say it anyway, whispering it into his hair and ignoring the four sets of eyes boring into my back.

“Now I know for sure the world’s ending,” he mutters when he sits back up, his face still dangerously blank except for the tightness around his lips. “I’m agreeing with Cullen Rutherford.” I’ve got nothing to say to that. I don’t know enough to have an opinion, not one that could possibly count, so I just kiss the top of his head again. “I’ll do it,” he agrees shortly, pulling away and shifting so that I'm standing next to him, held half curled into his side. “For now.”

His words are like a tumbler sliding into place, the final shift of the mechanisms to make the lock click open. I shut my eyes.

“Jesus fuck me, this is going to be a shit storm,” I murmur into his hair.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he agrees, “I imagine it will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are love and you are all amazing! Thank you for your continued support and feedback!


	12. The Lull Before the Storm

“… _that ice cold/ Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold/ This one for them hood girls/ Them good girls straight masterpieces,”_ I sing as I move around the kitchen, hips swinging and shoulders rocking to the music that I can still hear in my head, never mind that it’s been weeks since I listened to anything but Christmas music with any regularity. “ _Stylin’, whilen, livin’ it up in the city/ Got the Chucks on with Saint Laurent/ Got to kiss myself, I’m so_ – god damn it, Varric!” I let out a little screech as I turn around and find the dwarf between me and the sink, watching me with his arms folded across the expanse of his chest – which I very nearly run into.

Varric keeps me from falling flat on my ass. Cause he’s awesome like that.

“Jesus Christ,” I continue, “warn a girl, will you? I could have stabbed you in the face.” I motion at the knife sitting on the worktable which I may or may not have been using as some sort of dance prop just seconds ago.

“You couldn’t stab me,” Varric reassures with a roll of his eyes. “You’re not nearly…”

“She could have stabbed you,” Max’s voice, low and gravely with sleep, corrects from off to the side, and wow, that’s a good sound for him. I spare him a glance over my shoulder, a smile on my lips. He’s still at the table, though he’s sitting sideways in one of the chairs and leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and his hands resting lightly in his lap. He’s been like that for most of the day, the early morning pow wow with the rest of the new Inquisition’s war council having used up what little energy he woke with. I’d tried to get him to go back to bed but after I’d pointed out – for the third time – that beds were generally more comfy than chairs he’d growled – _growled!_ – at me and told me in no uncertain terms that he intended to stay in my little kitchen haven.

 _“It’s warmer, the view is better, and having you around is keeping me from snapping the Knight Captain’s neck.”_  

The look on his face had screamed _stop talking, you idiot_ so I’d stopped bugging him and left him to doze tucked up by the stove while I dealt with helping Ellana break down some type of mountain sheep and feeding at least a hundred people breakfast.

The fact that I _like_ having Max drowsing like a lazy cat in the corner of my kitchen – because, fuck it, this kitchen is definitely mine and no, I’m not giving it back – is irrelevant. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I pointedly ignore the way the sight of him out of the corner of my eye eases a tugging sort of tightness in the center of my chest.

“Please, Swift, she’s feisty and all but…”

“She could have stabbed you,” Max repeats, his eyes still closed. “She’s stressed, overworked, and emotionally compromised with no small amount of training and experience with holding a knife in her hand. You startle her in her own kitchen and you’re going to end up with a bloody cleaver in your face. There's not that much difference between a ram and a dwarf.”

Varric raises an eyebrow at me and I shrug. There's a short joke in there somewhere. I'm sure of it.

“You seem a decent fellow,” I tell him with a self-depreciating smile, “I hate to kill you.”

The dwarf stares at me for another beat before offering a shrug of his own. “Fair enough. You’d think I’d stop underestimating small, feisty women,” he acknowledges with a small huff, a shadow there and gone across his face before I can do more than note its presence.

“A weakness of yours?” I ask dryly, ignoring the sudden urge to chase after the shadow, to capture it and taste it – to tease it out until I can tear it free and rip it to shreds.

This time it’s a genuine laugh that bubbles out of his lips. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he admits. “Do you mind if I…?” he motions to the table and the empty chairs still pulled around it.

“I don’t mind,” I tell him. Max waves a hand in vague, nonverbal consent. Effective. “Did you need something or were you just after a scenery change?”

“Both,” Varric admits as he sinks into a chair and begins to pull items from his pockets: a sheaf of paper, a small stoppered bottle half full of what I assume is ink, a pen of some sort, a small red candle – which he promptly wedges into the crack between two of the planks that make up the tabletop, and a silver flask about the size of my hand. “It’s colder than Maferath’s heart out there. Plus, I hadn’t seen hair or hide of you since last night. I kind of wanted to make sure that you hadn’t vanished on us.”

The _o_ _r been made to_ , goes unsaid but I hear it anyway. Varric’s got some mad skills in that department.

“Still here,” I reassure him. “I haven’t woken up yet so you’re still stuck with me.” The blasé-ness of my response hits me like a sledgehammer to the heart and for a moment I can’t breathe, can’t think past the mind-numbing chasm that’s opened inside of my chest. I stumble a little and catch myself against the work table, fingers curling around the scarred wood and clinging to it in an effort to ground myself.

 _Oh, hell no_ , I protest inwardly. _I am not fucking do this right now. I. Am. Not._

This is not the time or place for hysterics. Not that there’s ever a particularly _good_ time for hysterics but I’m on an alien planet with magic and demons and rather handsome dwarves with impressive chest hair. It seems pretty obvious that there’s going to be hysterics. Just… not right now. Right now I got to play it like Elsa.

_Conceal, don’t feel._

“…Almost makes me believe in the Maker.”

Max’s voice is a lifeline, a rope casually tossed to where I’m slipping beneath the waves. I grab hold of it and cling with everything I’ve got. It takes a moment, a frantic sputtering of my heart against my ribs, before the solidity of his words begin to plug the gaping hole in my chest and let me pry my mouth open to suck in some oxygen. Fuck. The sudden breath of air is like acid in my lungs and a little too loud and hissing to be discreet but I don’t dissolve into ugly sobbing like I kind of want to so I’m counting it a success.

Varric laughs and I can feel it, a phantom hand running gently down the curve of my spine. “Don’t let the Seeker hear you,” he warns, “you’ll give her hope.”

“And you?”

“Nah, I know better than to try and convert an atheist. Drink?”

“I’ve got tea.”

“You’ve got tea,” Varric repeats, amused.

“Yes. And it actually _tastes_ like tea now so I’ll kindly thank you not to fuck that up for me by trying to dull the edge of things.”

I blink and a smile blooms across my face as the scene at the table swims into focus. Varric has got his little silver bottle extended and Max has the mug of tea that he’s been sipping at for the last hour pulled protectively into the curve of his arm while he glares at the dwarf.

Varric snorts. “Less than three days and she’s already got you by the balls.” Of course, the way he says it makes it sound like that’s not exactly a bad thing. Still, I’m offended. Slightly. Maybe.

“She’s pretty much feeding the entire village. She’s got everyone by the balls,” Max points out as Varric takes back his flask.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I murmur, plunking another mug of tea down on the table near Varric’s elbow and sliding a plate with one of the few remaining scones into the space in front of him. “I don’t have anyone’s balls. I am distinctly ball-less. I’m just looking out for you. Alcohol is shit for rehydration.”

“And you’re worried I’m going to kill the Knight Captain if my wits get addled.”

“…and I’m worried that you’ll try and kill Cullen again if you get tipsy,” I acknowledge with a nod. It’s a very valid fear. After the fearsome foursome had left the kitchen Max had spent a good half hour swearing and pacing the confines of the kitchen, to antsy and angry to sit still.

Not that I blame him. He’d clearly just been shanghaied into leading a religious military group that he clearly gives zero fucks for.  And I’m not even going to touch whatever his issue with Cullen is. I don’t have enough information to walk into that mess. Fuck, but I need more information about _everything._

 _My soul for a copy of_ ‘Thedas for Dummies’, I reflect wryly. 

“Need anything else?” I ask, turning my attention to Varric just as he dumps a generous measure of liquor into his mug. He gives a swift glance to Max, clearly wishing to say something if the stubborn line of his jaw is anything to go by. I catch his eye and glare, fiercely. Much as I wish to know what the hell is going on – preferably from multiple perspectives – now is not the time.

Not the time. Not the time. _Not the time_.

I seem to be thinking that a lot recently.

“No, Sugar. Unless you mind me taking up space to write some letters?”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Not at all. Just don’t sneak up on me…”

“…or you will stab me in the face?”

I beam at him and agree, “Or I will stab you in the face.”

He laughs. Just a little. I’ve surprised him. Though once again, I’m sensing that this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I narrow my eyes at him. He’s sneaky. Sneaky and observant and clearly filing every interaction away until he can stand back and look at all the pieces of me. I’m kind of curious to see what he finds because fuck if I know. As if following the line of my thoughts, his lips twitch. “I forgot how mouthy you were.”

Max snorts. “Varric,” I tell him with mock patience, “you were just with me last night.”

“In my defense, you are _very_ mouthy and I was somewhat drunk.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“You two are bloody menaces,” Max murmurs, gently touching the fingers of his free hand to my wrist. The touch is cool and soothing, aloe vera spread over a blistering sunburn and easing away the stinging, biting pain of it. Jesus fucking Christ, I am a strong independent woman, goddamn it, and I don’t need a man to make myself feel better.

Or something like that.

My fingers curl through his, turning our hands until they’re pressed together and all the tension leaks out of my shoulders.

Yeah. Strong independent woman. I’m clearly rockin’ that all night long.

“You alright, sweetheart?” Max’s quiet drawl breaks me out of my inner disdain. Because disdain is nine million times better than hysterics and panic and all the other unpleasant things that want to re-punch a hole in my chest.

“Just peachy,” I tell him with a twist of my lips.

 _Liar_ , I can hear in my head. Which, fair enough, is completely true but he doesn’t call me on it. Bless him. Of course, Max still looks like he’s gone a couple rounds with the Hulk so I suppose he can’t point fingers.

“You should rest.”

I shake my head. “Can’t. There’s a ball of dough over there just begging to be cinnamon rolls.” I jab my thumb at the rounded dome of dough that I’d left sitting in the middle of a floured board. “This morning was shit,” I add. “I need… I just need to keep _doing_ something. Anything. Or I’m going to lose it.”

Varric looks up from his letter. “This morning? What happened this morning?”

“You’ve seen the posted bans, right?”

“Yes…”

“ _That_ is what happened this morning. We got to play midwife to the bloody Inquisition. This whole thing is a blighted nightmare,” mutters Max. He gives the back of my hand a brief kiss before letting me go, shooing me off to the waiting dough, sugar, and spices.

“Well,” Varric murmurs after a delicate pause. “I can’t really disagree with that.”

I make some vague noise of assent, my mind already trapped by the soothing practice of patting the dough into a large rectangle.

This whole fucking place is a nightmare.

Except I don’t think it is. At least, not the type of nightmare that you wake up from.

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days slip past in a blur: one, two, three, four, five. I’ve been in Thedas a week before I can do much more than blink.

Fuck that shit, I do a hell of a lot more than blink.

I just… I don’t forget it but it all blurs together until it’s nothing but a comforting haze, a small niche of familiarity that I carve out for myself in this strange new world of mine.

I spend my days at the _Singing Maiden_ – mostly in the kitchen, though I do make the occasional appearance out in the tavern proper. I lose myself in the rhythm of cooking, of preparing three meals a day for over a hundred people and filling every spare second that I have with baking something that I then proceed to foist off on other people. Mostly Max. And Ellana because she continues to stick by me, dragging Varric out to hunt on a regular basis and keeping the kitchen stocked with something besides the heavily salted meat hanging out in the cold pantry. Even after a week she can’t cook a bowl of porridge without burning the damn thing but somewhere in there I manage to inadvertently teach her the words to _Livin’ on a Prayer_ so I’m pretty sure I can count our time together as a win.

She’s also sweet and rather sarcastic and it’s a relief to have another woman to talk to who doesn’t act  or look like she’s trying to figure out how useful I am or how to possibly murder me. If necessary. Leliana’s classy like that.

Varric takes to spending several hours of each afternoon and evening parked at the kitchen table, the soft _scratch, scratch, scratch_ of his pen soothing. When I ask what he’s writing he tells me that it’s the next installment of the serial romance that he’s been writing for years. Apparently his publisher is giving him hell for not having it done already. Because, you know, apparently war doesn’t count as a good excuse for putting it off.

“Not that _that_ is actually the issue,” he confesses as he takes the plate I hand to him, eyeing the meat pastry with interest. “I just don’t like writing romance.”

“Because love is dead and the world is a cold, cold place?” I guess as I slide into the seat across from him with a pastry of my own.

“No, because I’m awful at it,” he admits, glaring down at his parchment. “I much prefer writing the crime serials but apparently the romances have a steady market. Somewhere.” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know that I’ve ever actually met someone who mentions them to me though.”

“Eh, doesn’t mean that they’re not reading the shit out of them,” I tell him, thinking of my bookcases at home. There are more than a few shelves dedicated to romance novels in various levels of trashiness. Though, truthfully, most of the romance collection is digital. People can assume I’m playing Candy Crush when really I’m reading about a fantasy bad boy with a good heart. Or super steamy porn. Tomato, tomahto. “People get self-conscious about that sort of thing. Reading crime serials or epic fantasies or whatever is socially acceptable for one reason or another. Reading romances, on the other hand, implies a lack of intelligence or unrealistic expectations or some bullshit. It’s not true but the assumption exists anyway, so people don’t talk about it and they hide it away but it clearly still sells, which means it gets read.”

And Jesus, Varric did not sign up to listen to me monologue about this.

Varric stares, blinking rather owlishly. “That was… surprisingly helpful. And passionate.”

I shrug. “I live to serve.” And run my mouth. Apparently.

“How serious are you about that? Serving?”

I blink. “Uh… fifty-fifty on a good day? Why?”

“Because I wasn’t kidding when I said I was bad at this,” once more he motions at his parchment. “I don’t mean…I’m good at characters and plot. I can do that. I understand that. I just… there’s only so many blighted ways I can describe how the Knight Commander took her over the desk. It just feels boring and fake.”

I stare at Varric, tea paused halfway to my lips. Whatever I’d expected him to say _that_ sure as hell hadn’t been it. “You want me to help you right porn?” I ask incredulously.

The dwarf turns a very interesting shade of red. It clashes horribly with his hair. It’s also fucking adorable. So adorable. Like, I really just want to lean across the table and kiss his cheek or something cheesy like that.

“No. I wouldn’t… you’re… I would never assume,” the wordsmith loses all control over his words, tripping over his own tongue and impaling himself on his teeth in an effort to backtrack and apologize for the perceived insult. It’s kind of hilarious.

“Oh, Varric,” I interrupt before he can hurt himself. “Oh, sweet, _sweet_ Varric.” I reach across the table and grasp his free hand between both of mine, patting it softly as I stare straight into his face. “I’m a sexually curious pansexual with insomnia who hasn’t gotten laid on a regular basis in almost two years – and who hasn’t gotten laid _at all_ in like, two and half months. When I had a cold a month ago I spent two days curled up in bed binging my way through a million words of explicit Destiel. I’d be honored to help you write a love scene that results in wet panties and hard dicks everywhere.”

“There is one problem,” I add when Varric is done choking on his pastry.

“What’s that?”

“I can understand you when you speak and you can obviously understand me but I can’t read a damn word of that,” I motion at his papers.

Varric blinks at me for a minute before, “Oh. _Oh_.  Well, forget this,” he gathers up the scatter of parchment in a single, practiced sweep of his hands and I can’t help but feel a twinge of regret at its loss. Cooking and introducing the good people of Thedas to the wonders – and potential horrors – of modern Earth music is all well and good but I miss reading. Reading is life. Reading is… I am like a shark. If I stop reading, I’ll die.

And it’s been days since I’ve gotten to read _anything_.

“… fucking vultures can wait a little longer. It’ll be good for them. Instead,” he whips out a clean sheet of parchment and places it on the table in front of him. “I will teach you to read and write.”

“I… _what_?”

“You. Me. Letters and words. It can’t be all that different than what you’re used to.”

I blink.

I blink again.

I blink so many times that Varric probably thinks something is wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just… allergies.

“Sure,” I tell him with a watery smile. “That’d be fucking awesome.”

* * *

When he isn’t teaching me how to read Varric is telling me stories about his life in Kirkwall and if he’s half as good on paper as he is out loud the bastard is well on his way to being a weird amalgamation of John Grisham, Danielle Steele, and JK Rowling. I hang on to every word he says and file them away in my slowly growing store of knowledge. It seems wrong on some level, with the world devolving into chaos outside of the meager walls of Haven, to sit someplace safe and warm and indulge in storytelling. It makes something just below the level of my skin feel like I’ve wandered into a fire ant nest and stood there too long. But at the same time, what else can I do but listen? I’m a fucking stranger in a strange land. I need to know how everything _works_.

So I sit in my kitchen and I learn to read and I listen as Varric talks about the Fifth Blight, the refugees that had all but overrun Kirkwall, and the Qunari occupation that followed. I’m pretty sure he’s on to my quest for the highlights of my new world because a great number of his stories conveniently contain information about Kirkwall, the Free Marches, and their cultural, political, and economical relations with the rest of Thedas. The bulk of them, however, are about a man named Hawke.

There’s an epic bromance going on there. I can _feel_ it.

* * *

 

Where Ellana is dependable and Varric is predictable in his daily habits Max is erratic. The first two days he follows me around like he’s my own damn shadow, which pretty much means that he sits on his chair between the table and the stove and watches me prance around the kitchen. Half the time I hardly notice that he’s there. Well, no. That’s not quite true. I very rarely forget that he’s there and the few moments when I _do_ forget I seem to promptly descend into doing something embarrassing. Like belting out some Britney Spears while using a rolling pin as a microphone.

The dry chuffs of laughter usually remind me that he’s there.

The bastard.

“You sing a lot,” he mentions after the third time, shushing away my attempts to apologize for exposing him to _Oops, I did it again!_ Just because it’s forever ingrained upon my soul thanks to my early teenage years doesn’t necessarily mean that that it needs to be introduced to another world.

“Uh… yes?”

Max tips his head. “Were you a bard? On your world?” the kitchen is empty at the moment. Ellana is out in the dining room serving the last of the lunch crowd and Varric hasn’t made an appearance yet today.

I snort. “No. God, no. The closest I ever got to that was a bit of tipsy karaoke.” I shake my head and try to think of way to explain the phenomenon that is earth music to Max. Not cds and recordings and ipods and Pandora – that shit is way above my pay grade. I am a chef. I am in no way equipped to try and explain technology to anyone else. But everything else... “It’s just… music is important. We listen to it almost constantly – at home, at work, at social events, when we’re alone. I miss it,” I admit quietly, blinking back the emotions and thoughts of all the other things I miss. “I’ve spent my entire life singing along to various songs. It’s a hard habit to break.”

“I am not saying you need to stop,” he points out dryly.

“I probably should though,” I realize mournfully and Jesus, isn’t that thought like a dull knife to the heart. “I mean, it’s not exactly expected for… who I am.” I wave my hand in some overly complicated gesture that manages to take in both of us and then the room around us.

“Fuck expectations,” Max shrugs, mouth curving up in a smirk.

“That’s your advice?”

“More or less.”

I stare at him for a moment before a little bark of laughter manages to escape me. _Fuck expectations_. Truthfully, it’s not bad advice considering it’s a mantra I’ve pretty much followed for my entire life. It just seems a little risky given my current situation. You know, with the whole not-wanting-to-be-a-science-experiment thing.

Still, old dogs and new tricks, and it’s not long before I’m breaking down a squash while singing under my breath.

 _Staircase to Heaven_. Because if I’m going to be exposing the poor bastard to my music I might as well make the experience well rounded.

He also watches me like he expects me to vanish in front of his eyes, or perhaps to be randomly murdered – probably by Cullen – on the spot, half-kneaded bread dough in hand.  It would be annoying except I seem to have imprinted on the man like a baby duck and kind of want to follow him everywhere in return.

Quack. Quack.

By the third day Max has recovered enough that he takes to slipping out of the kitchen at random moments and slinking around Haven like some sort of stray dog. At first I have no idea where he’s gone or what he’s doing – not that, codependent relationship aside, it’s any of my business – but it’s not long before I start hearing murmurs from the soldiers and villagers that crowd into the tavern’s tables.

“…him down by the lake, digging around in the snow.”

“… at the blacksmith’s. Getting’ his armor back, I reckon. I heard they had to cut it off him after the…”

“…with Adan. Didn’t stick ‘round long once I got there. Said he had other business. What sorts of business d’you suppose he’s got? Not like there’s a lot to do ‘round here.”

“Heard he put a Templar flat on her back.” A loud snigger and a rude gesture. “Not like that, you blighted mongrel!”

I snort at that last one which means that I find myself suddenly face to face with an entire table of horrified looking soldiers. “Oh, don’t mind me,” I tell them with a wave of my hand as I deposit the last of their food on the scarred wooden surface. “I assure you I’ve heard worse.”

“F-forgive us, my la…”

“No. Just. Jesus, what is it with you people and the honorific titles? Do I look like a fucking lady?” My proclamation doesn’t help. If anything they look more horrified. I sigh and stifle the urge to roll my eyes. I can be patient and polite. I _can_ , god damn it. “Enjoy your food, boys.” I offer them a smile and saucy wink.

“Was that…?” I hear as I disappear back into the kitchen.

“ _Shut up, you idiot_!”

“He’s establishing the lay of the land,” Varric says when I mention it later. “A man like Trevelyan needs to know the whos and whats and wheres of wherever he’s staying or he gets all twitchy. Broody is the same way.”

“Broody?” I ask, because the name sounds familiar. I think the dwarf has mentioned them before.

“Mmm. Friend of mine,” he nods, scratching away at the spread of parchment. It’s a great tangled mess of words. Half of them are written one way and some are scrawled in a ninety degree angle across that. There’s even a paragraph near the bottom that looks like it’s upside down. His book, then. He’s much neater when he’s writing letters and he writes a shocking amount of letters. I kind of hope that he rewrites his books before he sends them off to his publishers. Either that, or he gives them a really big bonus for dealing with his mess. “Used to be a slave up in Tevinter.”

I blink at that. “A slave?” I repeat weakly. “You have that here?”

“Only in Tevinter. Makes the blood magic easier.”

I blanche. “Blood magic? That sounds… bad.” Very, very bad.

Varric hums and flips one sheet to the side and marks out several passages, scowling at the words disappearing beneath the fresh onslaught of ink. “It’s certainly messy,” he agrees with a scowl and slashes out another paragraph so harshly that he rips through the parchment. “You probably scarred them for life,” he adds.

It takes me a few minutes to figure out what he means.

“The soldiers?” I ask, just to clarify. Because mentally I’m still a little stuck on _slave_ and _blood magic_.  Shocker, I know.

“They were gossiping about _the Herald_ in a salacious manner and there you were.”

“There I was…?”

Varric looks up from his writing and gives me an exasperated look. “Yes. There _you_ were. _The Herald’s Mistress_.”

I stare at him for a minute because, really, I hadn’t thought about that but now that I _am_ … “Oh god,” I snigger. “I _winked at them_ and told them to go back to their gossip.”

Varric stares at me for so long that I think I might have broken him.

“Maferath’s balls,” he finally mutters. “Forget this,” he shoves the mangled pieces of his romance to the side and grabs a fresh piece of paper. “I’m going to write a book about you.”

I snort. “Right.”

“It’ll be the best thing I’ve ever written,” he mutters, already scrawling words across the page in such a hurried hand that I doubt even he can read it. “And I wrote _Tales of the Champion_. The only thing that’s had more printings is the Chant.”

“Varric, you can’t be serious,” I protest. “You’ve known me for, like, five days. And I’m not that interesting.” He pauses then to give me a pointed stare. “I’m _not_ ,” I repeat. “And it’s not like you can tell the whole world about…” I motion vaguely at myself.

The dwarf snorts. “Please. What type of idiot do you take me for? This isn’t a biography, Sugar. It’ll be a sweeping epic of adventure, romance, and tragedy.”

“Tragedy?”

“We’ve got a fucking hole in the sky and half the world is in shambles. Of course it's going to be tragedy.”

And really, I can’t exactly argue with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I always read. You know how sharks have to keep swimming or they die? I'm like that. If I stop reading, I die." - Patrick Rothfuss (If I had to define myself by three quotes this would definitely be one of them.)
> 
> As always, your comments and kudos are the wind beneath my muse's wings. If I could repay you with home baked goods I would do so. Agressively.


	13. The Taste of Rain

“Great,” I mutter when I open my eyes to the view of a green and sepia sky, “this again. Fantastic.” Without sitting up I reach over and pinch myself in the arm – _hard_ – and barely feel it. Well, at least I’m dreaming. That’s a win. Definitely better than actually being stuck here with god knows how many demons howling at the gates and no overly protective assassins to, you know, actually protect me.  Though, if Max were here would it matter? Would he actually be able to do anything against the demons? When the demons had been killed on the mountain they hadn’t actually _died_. They’d sort of burst open in an explosion of blood and flesh that had morphed into smoke as soon as it hit the air and then been sucked back into the rift. They were _gone_ but that is all. I’m not actually sure they can be killed.

Can one kill a demon? Or can they merely be exorcised?

Huh. I wonder if holy water would work on the bastards. Not that I’ll get the chance to try it out, clearly, as I’ve left my stash of holy water in my other pair of pants. Still, the possibilities are slightly distracting. Or at least more interesting than the slightly creepy dreamland surrounding me.

What had Solas called it? The world between worlds.

The place from which mages draw their power. The home of demons and spirits.

So why then am I being drawn back to it? Is it because I have walked through it, physically, my mortal fleshing leaving imprints upon its insubstantial surface? Or is it something else?

I sigh, loudly. “Fuck,” I mutter and heave myself to my feet.

Fade Haven looks exactly as it did the last time I was here. Muted and empty, as if the life has been sucked away and held just out of reach. Of course, the knowledge that there is a veritable horde of demons surrounding the village casts a shadow larger than absolutely anything else and I have zero desire to see them tonight. So instead of heading down the now familiar street that leads towards our house, the tavern, and –eventually – the gates I turn and pick another direction at random. I’ve been meaning to get out of the kitchen and see the rest of Haven… it just actually hasn’t happened yet. Maybe I can do it here.

Though, if I’m dreaming will the rest of Haven even be filled in? Or will only the places I’ve been to be constructed of this muted clarity?

The answer, as it turns out, is yes. Yes the rest of Haven is there.

Fuck, but that’s cool.

Like, how does that shit even work? Because I know I haven’t been in this section of town before. I’ve barely even glanced in its direction. Vaguely. In the dark. While trying to not kill myself on the ice rink that is the courtyard in front of the chantry.

It’s quieter than what I’m used to. Both in dreamland and out of it. The streets are narrower and there is more actual snow – or the appearance of it, at least – and less muddy, icy sludge. The buildings are also smaller and crammed more tightly together, more than a few of them literally leaning against their neighbor in life sized game of dominoes.  They’re also not built as well. And by not built as well I mean that I’ve seen toddlers with plastic tools build erect structures. There’s more than one with holes in the walls and along the ground, places where wood and stone have rotted or been torn away or simply not even been there to begin with. Jesus, I hope there aren’t people living in these buildings. They’ll freeze to death.

“Bloody Frostbacks,” I mutter and make a note to check on this part of the village in the real world. There’s no reason for such disrepair. Haven may be depressed and crowded, stuck playing host to refugees and a newborn military power, and resources are no doubt scarce but I remember how many half destroyed homes we passed on our way back down the mountain. Surely materials can be scavenged from their remains and used to make the village habitable.

It’s not like the dead will care and it might just keep some of the living from joining them.

Wow, I’m a cheerful bitch tonight.

I shake the thoughts from my head and return to my exploration, fingers trailing along doorframes and brushing against the corner of buildings as I pass them by. I don’t mean to touch anything but I can't stop myself. Don’t even realize I’m doing it, actually, until a baby’s cry teases at the edges of my hearing and I blink to find the flat of my palm resting against a boarded over window. By the time the narrow, winding street spills into a broader one I’ve collected dozens of such instances, most of them sounds or feelings with tastes that sit heavy on my tongue and scents that linger in my nose. Grief and fear in so many shades I cannot number them. Rage and frustration and helplessness, sometimes separate and sometimes all balled together like Christmas lights haphazardly thrown into a box and left to amuse themselves in the attic for a year.

Once there is a single peal of laughter, soft and surprised. It feels like sunlight against my fingertips and tastes like honey and flowers in my mouth.  

It takes a long time to convince myself to move past that doorway.

But eventually, I do and eventually I leave the quiet, narrow streets for a larger street. It dead ends to my left, up the hill a little. Or it must, I think, because the barricade surrounding the village is right _there_. Curious, I head up the hill.

“ _Oh_.”

Yeah, I’m definitely going to have to see if this actually exists in Real Haven. Because if it does I might just relocate. Shit, it’d be worth coming back to this place just for the view. It’s gorgeous, even washed out and painted in shades of brown and yellow. If this place _does_ exist in Real Haven then, frankly, I’m kind of surprised that they hadn’t slapped their chantry down right here because the views from its step are nice and all but they’ve got nothing on this. This high up it’s a clear view over rooftops and walls and a breathtaking one hundred and eighty degree view of the lake, its frozen surface like cut crystal in the dim sunlight. The whole thing is framed in the curve of the mountain range on the left and steep foothills to the right with the outline of a fake sun rising above it. The sun sets over the mountains but I bet the sunrise from this place is spectacular.

The only thing marring the postcard playing out before my eyes is the pack of demons I can see between the village walls and the edge of the lake. I’m far enough away that I can’t make out their individual features as they roil and surge like a pack of starved piranhas. I can still hear the bastards though, ever so faintly, the sharp hisses and terrifying screeches hovering at the very edge of my senses. I can almost feel it more than hear it, vibrations that linger against my skin until I shiver.

What keeps them there, I wonder. What keeps them spread across the shoreline in a frustrated mess? There are no soldiers here to beat them back and last time I was here it was quite clear that the gates to the fucking village were flung wide open. So why are they still out _there_ , beyond the arbitrary barrier? The barrier that they could no doubt climb like it isn’t even there, never mind the damn gates.

The high, mournful cry of a wolf rolls across the landscape and I jump a little, twitching uneasily in my skin.

The demons, on the other hand, flinch as if struck and scramble backwards, nearly tripping and falling over themselves as at least half of them spill out onto the ice and away from the village. Some of the remaining demons surge forward into the empty space left by their fleeing fellows, swarming up the shore of lake and spilling over the bank onto the wide, flat area before Haven’s gates.

Another howl echoes in the weird, stagnant air of the Fade and with it comes the largest wolf I’ve ever seen. I mean, seriously. Fuck me. The thing’s huge. It’s nearly half as tall as the wall surrounding Haven, which means it is definitely taller than I am. I could limbo under the damn thing’s belly without any effort at all.

And wow, that mental image makes me choke on my own spit.

With a snarl that I can feel in my bones the wolf launches itself from the ground and slams into the demonic mob, sending them crashing back down into the ice and snow. The fight, if it can even be called that, is quick. Never mind that the demons outnumber the ebony wolf by hundreds, it rips through them like they’re nothing more than wet paper. It’s kind of beautiful in that way that only violence can ever manage to be beautiful.

That little primal, lizard part of my brain that tells me to shut the fuck up and watch my step around Leliana, that tells me that regardless of the fact that he looks like a fucking hobo that Solas is the most dangerous person I’ve met on Thedas – no, _ever_ , full stop – that little part of me that hasn’t bothered to evolve since my distant ancestors discovered fire flat out purrs at the destruction being wrought before me. “Good puppy,” I murmur as I watch demons shred and die beneath its teeth and claws, so many of them disappearing into a haze of black smoke that soon my view is obscured entirely.

I watch until it clears.

The demons are still there, huddled on the lake, their numbers decimated.

The wolf is gone.

I am sad to have missed its passing. What is a wolf doing here? Is this its home? Is it trapped here? Or does it simply visit erratically, like myself?

If so, that’s got to be one very, _very_ confused canine.

“I had hoped to see you again,” a deep voice remarks from somewhere behind me. “Though, I confess, I thought that such a meeting would take place in the waking world.”

“Fucking _hell_ ,” I gasp, jumping a little as I grab at my chest. Because that’s totally going to keep my heart from jumping straight out of my body and sprinting away. At least I don’t make that totally pathetic, girly _eep_ noise. “Christ on a cracker, what is with you people and sneaking up on me? Do you take classes? Is there like some standing order? Fuck, I bet it was Cassandra. That woman is terrifying and she does _not_ like me,” I ramble as I force myself to take a deep breath. And then another one.

Solas offers me a wry, unrepentant smile from where he is leaning against the door frame of the building to my right. It’s so calm, so casual that it throws me for a spin. He’s at home here, I realize. Where everyone else – myself included, thankyouverymuch – is running around like a chicken with its head chopped off over the idea of the Fade and being _in_ the Fade and the possibility of the Fade suddenly relocating into itself into everyone’s everyday business Solas is camped out against door looking amused. While _in the Fade_.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you,” he offers but the corner of his mouth twitches. The bastard.

He smirks like he knows what I’m thinking.

“Don’t worry about it,” I finally dismiss with a wave of my hand. “At least I didn’t have a knife in my hand this time. I’ve nearly poked Varric’s eyes out twice this week.”

“The child of stone has a peculiar sense of humor,” the elf acknowledges. I snort. That’s one way of putting it. Varric’s sense of humor is equal parts morbidity, bad puns, and dad jokes. It’s simultaneously awful and delicious. “At first when you did not come find me I had hoped that you had taken my advice.”

_You must leave. You must disappear from this place._

“And get myself killed fifty feet down the road because my fighting skills begin with _kick ‘em in the balls_ and ends with _stick ‘em with the pointy end_? I think not.”

Solas smiles and it’s a frightening thing, full of teeth. “You are not as defenseless as you think,” he tells me.

I scoff. “Right.”

“You have been on our world for seven days, _da’lath’in_ , and you arrived with nothing more than the clothes on your back.”

“I’m aware of that, yes,” I reply dryly, tugging at my gifted clothes. Nothing that I have here is mine. Not really. Not the clothes on my back or the blankets on my bed.  Not the bed I’m sleeping in or the man I’m sleeping with or even the house that we’re sleeping in. Fuck, even the food I’m eating and cooking and giving away isn’t mine.

It’s my childhood all over again.

“And yet you are one of the most powerful people in Haven.”

“Yeah…no. I’m really, really not,” I laugh, thinking of all the people I’ve met over the past week. I’m not talking about the lowly peon masses – the soldiers, the servants, the refugees. No, I’m thinking of the Fearsome Foursome. I’m thinking of fucking Roderick who is apparently still holding some type of come to Jesus meeting twice a day in front of the chantry because the building itself has been – and I quote – ‘ _Defiled by heretics’_. I think of Cullen’s second in command: a handsome, almost gentle faced man named Rylen who smiles more than any soldier I’ve met so far. He’s not very scary and he doesn’t have the darkness that seems to follow Cullen about like a little lost puppy but he has an air of supreme competence around him. I don’t even need to know him to know that this is a man who _gets shit done_.  And then there’s me. With the baked goods and pop culture references that they won’t ever get and a never ending supply of song lyrics. “Yeah,” I repeat with a snort. “I’m really not.”

“But you are and if you do not see it then you are blind.”

“I’m a chef,” I point out.

Solas gives me an exasperated look and joins me where the road ends. Together we stare up at the mountains, at the terrifying green swirl of the Breach overhead. Now that he is closer, I am struck once again by feeling of something looming over him as if he’s larger than he really is - and he’s not really a small man to begin with. There’s something comforting about it, soothing, as if merely standing in his shadow is enough to make the world go blissfully quiet. I hadn’t realized how loud everything had been, how much I could feel it pressing on me until the echoes of quiet sobs, until the scent of scorched iron, until all of it is gone.

“...And an alien,” I add unhelpfully.

“In seven days,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken, “you have managed to integrate yourself with those in power, to make yourself useful and needed. You have spun the story of being the Herald’s Mistress, the lover of the man who is solely responsible for the fact that everyone in this village is still alive.  That is a powerful place to be,” he lectures calmly, as if ticking items off a list. “More than that you have thrown yourself into your perceived duties. While the likes of the Seeker and the Lady Nightingale scramble to secure their new organization and the world around them, you focused on saving the world that is _here_. You have fed and comforted those that have lost everything. To hold the heart of the people is no small power.”

“… until they decide I’m dangerous and decide to stone me,” I mutter, but I don’t mean it. Not really. I can’t really imagine anyone in Haven wanting to stone me. Except for fucking Roderick. Maybe. I still haven’t figured out exactly what type of asshole he is but I’m leaning towards the _all bark, no bite_ sort. Or at least the sort of asshole who doesn’t bite personally. He’ll have others do his dirty work.

“The Herald would not allow that,” Solas sounds sure of it and I can’t blame him. I can’t really imagine Max allowing it either. Not after watching him try to gut Cullen in the middle of my kitchen. But Solas hadn’t been there for that. In fact, he hadn’t been there for any of the more recent moments in our little codependent party. It makes me wonder, yet again, exactly what Max is doing while he learns Haven inside and out. “ _I_ would not allow it,” he adds quietly.

I blink at that.

“…why?” I ask, before I can stop myself. Smooth, Avery. Way to go. Man offers to save you from the potential of an angry, murderous mob and you question it. This is why I can’t have nice things.

 _So damn mouthy_ , Varric’s voice echoes wryly in my head. It’s going to get me fucking killed one day. And I’m going to completely deserve it.

“Why not?” he counters, turning to fix that quicksilver gaze on me. “Do I need an excuse to not be a monster?”

 _Oh, shit_.

The question is supposed to be teasing, I think. Droll, sardonic judgement masked with a quirk of his lips and a delicate arch of his brow. And I would have bought it. I would have bought it _hard_ had it not been for the sudden screaming in the back of my skull and the scent of blood in my nose: coppery, sweet, and hot.

I stumble a bit beneath the weight of it and catch myself with a fist of his hobo layers. I feel it then, an explosion behind my eyelids and the concussion that rips out from, consuming everything. I can hear the screaming, can hear the crying. I can feel the tears streaming down my cheeks as I stand in the center of it.

_Ir abelas. Ir abelas. Ir abelas._

The words repeat over and over inside of me, beating themselves into existence inside my chest until I drown on them. Until everything else has been ripped away. Until there is nothing left. Nothing but me, standing in the dark without even the screams of the dying to comfort me.

I don’t know what they mean. But I could guess.

I blink.

“You’re not a monster.” The words are slow and heavy on my tongue and beneath my touch Solas flinches.

“You do not know me,” he replies after a moment, but his hand is still steady on my elbow, holding me up. I don’t even know when he grabbed me. Probably about the same time I grabbed him.

I manage a smirk. It’s like trying to pull frozen taffy. “I could say the same thing,” I tell him. “And yet here we are.”

Solas’ touch is soft against my cheek, the callused pad of his thumb wiping away the tears that still stream heedlessly from my eyes. I don’t even know that I’m crying – still crying? – until he touches me, the coolness of his skin steadying against the fevered flush of my own. “Come, little one,” he murmurs, turning me towards the building from which he had emerged. “We need to talk.”

 

* * *

 

I can’t actually tell if Solas’s house – well, I’m assuming that it’s his house. For all I know he’s just set up camp in the only Fade Haven building that doesn’t try to eat you with despair – is larger than mine or if that’s just an illusion brought on by the fact that the broad side of it faces forward.   The sparseness of the furnishings probably helps. On one side of the semi divided house there is a neatly made bed, smaller than Max and I’s but still probably big enough for two people. If they got creative. Really creative, I amend after stealing a glance at the span of Solas’ shoulders. They’re nowhere near as large as Cullen’s – because still, _wow_ – but they’re definitely wider than Max’s and probably on par with Varric’s.

And I really need to focus on something beside the width of a man’s shoulders.

And get laid but that's probably not happening.

A small brazier set near the bed and a trunk in the corner with his magic staff – oh god, so many jokes – propped against the wall next to it round out that side of the house. The other side of the house is nearly as empty. There is a table in the corner, its surface littered with bundles of herbs and bright strips of white cloth, and a single chair pulled up next to it. The only other furnishing in the room is the cot set before the fire.

“I would offer you some tea but I’m afraid that I quite detest it,” he murmurs as he urges me down into the chair. It’s not until my ass is parked on its surface and my legs are no longer attempting to hold me up that I realize just how badly I am shaking. Jesus, if I didn’t feel overheated and half a second away from passing out in a puddle of clammy sweat I’d think I was well on my way to being hypothermic.

“ _Blasphemy_!” I manage to gasp as his words sink in. The heathen. “Would I even be able to drink it?” I ask after a moment, brow furrowed in thought.

“You would. It would quench no thirst and any food that you might here would provide no nourishment but you are quite able to eat and drink,” he answers and, to illustrate his point, he fills a roughly hewn cup with water from the ewer sitting on the table and takes a long swallow of it before offering it to me. Curious, I take it, though my hands are still shaking from whatever the hell had happened outside and I need his touch to steady me as I raise the cup to my lips and take a sip. It tastes… muted, like everything else around me, a shadow of what I know water should taste like. Even the sensation of it slipping down my throat is dimmed. “The Fade itself is raw, unshaped and wild. In places that hold a strong enough memory or enough power you will find an echo of the waking world. You can eat, drink, and sleep in the Fade but it will mean nothing. In fact, stay here too long and your body will wither and die and your spirit will be trapped.”

I let him take the cup and set it on the table. “That’s… horrifying,” I murmur. “And completely fascinating.”

Solas gives me a puzzled look. “Most only think the former,” he finally replies, still staring. I dismiss it with a vague wave of my hand. I’m not _most_. Obviously.

“So like… how long can I stay here before I…” _Choose the wrong grail cup_ , my mouth wants to say but I manage to engage my brain to mouth filter and, “… _wither_? And what happens to my spirit if my body dies?”

“Approximately three days, maybe four, unless your body happens to be injured or a demon has ensnared you and is feeding upon your energy.” Well that sounds positively delightful. “Most spirits fall into a demon’s clutches and are lost. The rest go mad,” he answers instantly. “Caught in a half-life in a place that they have been taught to fear, madness is all but inevitable.”

“Poor bastards,” I mutter, “Is it common, then? Getting stuck? Is that why everyone is terrified of it?” I mean, Cullen had given me an overview of the whole abomination situation and frankly, I can understand the concern there. Taken over by a demon and turned into a monster does not sound like my idea of a picnic. But from what I’d gathered in my meager attempts at reconnaissance into my new culture that only happens to mages – and that mages aren’t a very common occurrence. Perhaps less than one in a thousand, at least in Ferelden. Maybe it is different elsewhere. Regardless, if getting stuck in the Fade and eaten by a demon is a risk you take every time you go to sleep then I suppose I’ll have to stop silently judging someone every time they break out in hysterics over the subject.

Solas is already shaking his head. “Not at all. It is only a danger to mages because without magic, without that connection to the Fade it is impossible for the body and spirit to separate.”

Well, that’s disappointing. Not that I’m disappointed that loads of people aren’t getting their souls sucked out and set loose on a different plane of existence but I’m disappointed that there still doesn’t seem to be an explanation to the blind, petrifying fear people have of the Fade itself. I mean, I’d walked through it for gods know how long and outside of that initial look at the dementor like demon and that weird ass dream about my family exactly nothing had happened. It had been terribly boring. I’d been in more danger in my first five minutes on Thedas than I ever had been in the Fade.

I give my head a little shake and look to Solas, fingers tapping idly on the table top while I think, something about his words teasing at the edges of my brain.

“Wait. So if you have to be a mage to connect with the Fade, how the fuck am I here?”

“That is what I wished to speak with you about,” Solas confesses. “I had expected that Trevelyan would be able to visit the Fade because of the Mark on his hand but you are neither mage nor marked. You are something else entirely.”

“…alien?” I offer hopefully.

“Yes, but more, even, than that. You…”

_“Avery!”_

I blink and hold up my hand, stalling his words. “Do you hear that?” I ask and instantly he goes still, head cocked to the side as he listens.

_“Avery!”_

“No…” Solas replies slowly. “What are you hearing?”

“My name. It sounds like…”

_“AVERY!”_

* * *

 

I slam back into wakefulness, my eyes springing open to show Max kneeling beside me, his hand on my shoulder and shaking me while he watches me with a pinched look on his face.  “Avery! Avery, sweetheart , you’ve got to wake up. You’ve got to…” I wave flail my arms gracelessly, knocking into his body as I try and orient myself.

“I’m’a’wake,” I gasp  and give my head a little shake. “Why are you freaking out?”

Max just stares at me with those pale, ice gray eyes and I can’t decide if that’s exasperation in them or if he just thinks I’m stupid. It could quite possibly be both. Probably both. “You were crying in your sleep,” he finally answers and now that he’s mentioned it I can feel that the pillow beneath my head is limp and soaked. “You were crying and convulsing and I couldn’t get you to stop. Or wake up.”

Shit.

That sounds… bad.

 “Just a bad dream,” I tell him. It’s both a lie and the truth. He gives me a skeptical look. “It was dark,” I whisper, remembering as I stare at the flames flickering in the fireplace just over the curve of his shoulder. “It was dark and there was nothing left. Nothing at all,” I continue, shivering as the memory of the sheer, all-encompassing force of it twists in the center of my chest. “There was nothing and no one and I was all alone.”

I don’t realize how badly I’m shaking until Max’s arms are around me, holding me still, locking me against his chest and pressing his lips to the top of my head. “You’re not alone,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly hoarse. “I’m here and I’m not letting you go.”

His touch is grounding, his voice a balm against the aching loneliness that sweeps across my tongue.

Rain, I think to myself. Loneliness tastes like rain.

 “Stuck with you, am I?” I whisper.

Max nods against my head. “It’s not every day that you meet a beautiful woman who’s willing to slap you in the middle of battle.”

“Twice,” I correct with a sniff as I bury my nose in hard planes of his chest. “I slapped you twice.”

“Well, I was unconscious for the second,” Max drawls after a moment and I can feel his lips curving in a smile. “I trust that you’ll make it up to me at some point?”

I snort, unable to stop myself even as I tighten my grip on him, on the feel of his body wrapped around mine. “You can count on it,” I promise and press a gentle kiss of my own to the center of his chest.

I’ve nearly nodded off, my mind calmed and going hazy with sleep by the time Max speaks again. “Are you really alright?”

It’s an effort to drag myself back into some sort of half-assed awareness but I manage. Barely. After a moment of hesitation I answer with an honest, “As I can be. Better than I thought I’d be. Than I probably should be.”

“You’ll let me know if that changes?”

Worry is biting and acidic like apple cider vinegar. It makes me want to sneeze.

I don’t but it’s pretty damn close.

“Yes,” I promise. I pause, my fingers rubbing senseless patterns into the muscles along the length of his spine. “How about you? How are you doing?”

“Well, I haven’t killed anyone yet,” Max finally offers into the mad tangle of my hair. He’s not joking. The fact that he’s not joking should probably fucking terrify me but it doesn’t.

“I’m glad. Let me know if you need help hiding a body.” There’s a small smile on my face but I’m not joking either.

Which is also something that should fucking terrify me.

It doesn’t.

If I ever find my way back to Earth I am going to need so much therapy. _So. Much. Fucking. Therapy._

“I haven’t needed help hiding a body since I was sixteen,” and wow, _that_ is actually kind of horrible. And impressive. And I’m pretty sure all these thoughts are just moving me along the fast track to hell. You know, if I believed in hell. “But if that changes I’ll let you know.”

Eventually we lay back down, Max pulling me back against his chest and wrapping me in arms and legs. It should feel suffocating. I should feel trapped. I don’t, though. I feel safe, safe because I’m not alone, because I’m not lost in some black void of destruction and loss. My fingers curl through the blankets covering the bed, tightening around the cloth in poor mimicry of the grip I had held on Solas’ shirt.

_You are neither mage nor marked. You are something else entirely._

_What am I?_ I want to whisper back. _How did the rest of that conversation go?_

Tomorrow, I resolve. Tomorrow I will go finish my talk with Solas. Ellana can manage the lull between breakfast and lunch without losing her head. And if she gets too flustered Varric can pull her ass out of the fire. Everything will be fine.

Tomorrow.

I never do manage to fall all the way back to sleep. Instead, I hover in the strange limbo between, lulled by the beating of Max’s heart and the warmth of his breath against the back of my neck.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow, it turns out, is a shit storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know how Solas talks about the Nightmare demon controlling/ruling over a certain part of the Fade? I've got this head canon Solas sets up camp and does the same wherever he goes and that _that_ is why there aren't every any abominations in Haven despite the convergence of demons and stressed, emotionally unstable mages. 
> 
> And, as always, your comments and support are love for my soul and a dangled carrot for my muse.
> 
> Theoretically, it should be two more chapters and then we're (finally!) in the Hinterlands. Theoretically. *gives characters a pointed glare*


	14. Not Enough Spoons

We’re back in that little room at the back of the Chantry – the one with the big ass table, its scarred surface now covered in a map almost as big as it is – and everybody just looks _so damned pleased_ to be here.

Oh, goody.

“You people look like shit,” I tell them bluntly as I heave the basket up on to the table. It’s heavy. I should have made Max carry it but _someone_  - I shoot the assassin a little side eye – needed to have his hands free in case something jumped out of the shadows and shouted _‘Boo!”_.  Which, don’t get me wrong, I would have been swooning with gratitude if something had happened but nothing had gone down and I’d had to carry the big heavy basket all the way up here by myself.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Max drawls as he drops into the chair next to me, propping his feet up on the table – and a portion of the map that reads _Korcari Wilds_ – with an air of disregard that makes Josephine’s face twitch.

“I didn’t mean you, hot stuff. You’re sex on a stick,” I reassure him dryly. He quirks an eyebrow at me in response, clearly amused.

“Sex on a stick, huh?” he repeats and I can’t stop the dirty little smirk that spreads my lips.

“Yup,” I pop the _p_ and flutter my eyelashes. “Tasty and easily accessible.”

Max spreads his arms wide and tosses me a wink. “Only for you, sweetheart.”

Across the table Cassandra sounds like a dying cat.

“… but the rest of you,” I wave a finger at the other four people in the room. “You look like shit. I mean, seriously, have you slept at all in the past five days? Because you’re all starting to look like a pack of fucking raccoons. It’s not a good look for you. And you sure as hell haven’t been eating enough. I know because none of you have been down to the tavern and I’ll eat my boots if they have an actual kitchen in this place.” I wave a hand at the chantry in general, the gesture encompassing all sorts of wooden beams and religious frippery. “Which means that you’ve probably been living off of tea, alcohol, and whatever odd bits of food you can scrounge up and/or gets shoved into your hand.” I give them each a pointed glance, lingering on the obvious wrinkles in their clothes and the shadows beneath their eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong,” I dare them.

Crickets.

Nothing but crickets.

I nod and go back to the basket. “Thought so.” Stubborn assholes. How the hell are they supposed to save the world or whatever motivational bullshit they’re telling themselves if they don’t stay alive long enough to do it? I swear, I’m surrounded by idiots. Goddamn idiots.

Cassandra  makes another strangled noise and I pause with a wrapped bundle of egg and meat pastries in one hand. “I said that last bit out loud, didn’t I?”

Max is smirking so hard that it’s got to hurt his face. “Possibly.”

I stifle a groan and put the bundle down on the table. “Fantastic,” I mutter. “See, this is why you don’t have super secret meetings before midmorning. My brain to mouth filter has not fully engaged yet and oh my god, Cullen, sit your ass down before you fall over.”

The man on the other side of the table is dangerously pale, his fingers clamped around the table edge like it’s the only thing keeping him from faceplanting on the floor. Going by the look on his face – like he can’t decide if he’s going to throw up or pass out – it’s probably even true. The rest of the room turns to look at him at my words and Max narrows his eyes, smirk instantly wiped away and replaced with something a great deal more vicious, his eyes narrowed in careful observation over the arms crossed over his chest.

If he didn’t have feet up on the table I’d kick him. Discreetly, of course, but I’d kick him. Because I highly doubt that Cullen is about to vault over the table and murder me when he can’t even let go of the table long enough to wave away everyone’s attention. So dangerous.

I roll my eyes.

“Sit. Down,” I repeat firmly, skirting around the edge of the table and behind Leliana and Josephine before anyone really catches on to what I’m doing. Max’s feet hit the floor and I fix him with a glare as he leans forward, no doubt going for one of the knives he has secreted about his person.

 _Stay_ , I order him silently. His lips twitch in a grimace but he stays put. He’s practically vibrating out of his seat with a scarcely leashed violence. I glare at him, silently daring him to do something unnecessarily stupid. I might not be particularly dangerous – like, at all, no matter what Max says or how I joke about stabbing Varric in the face – but I’m not above withholding baked goods.

He lets out a long suffering sigh. “So feisty,” he mutters under his breath as I steady Cullen with a hand on his back.

Oh, shit.

Just.

_Fuck._

I’m not touching him skin to skin and that might just be my saving grace but that black tide reaches up and bitch slaps me anyway. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in a tutu it’s like I’ve taken a blunt ax to the center of my skull. The pain is horrendous and I suddenly feel like I’m about to burst out of my skin – hot and cold and shaking like a caffeinated squirrel all at the same time.

 I suck in a sharp breath and kick a chair underneath him. “Jesus fucking Christ, how the fuck are you still standing?” I ask hoarsely, guiding him down onto the seat. “Fuck that. How are you still _conscious_?”

Cullen blinks blearily, his tall form all but melting over the edges of the chair. “… stubbornness?” he offers  after a moment. “Maker’s breath, there’s so much to do and I…”

“Bullshit,” I interrupt, slapping my hand over his mouth. For a moment I blink, the both of us staring wide eyed at where my skin is pressed against his face like it’s a bomb. But nothing happens and frankly that might actually be more terrifying. “No. No speaking for you. Or moving. Or anything. Just… sit for a minute. It’s making me nauseated just looking at you…”

Max sniggers.

“…bite me, Trevelyan,” I growl across the table and Max flashes me that grin that makes everything south of my belly button turn into quivery jello. “Did anyone think to send for some tea?”

“Of course,” Josephine sounds a little offended at the idea that she’d be less than perfectly hospitable. “It should be here an…” Her words are interrupted by a respectful tapping on the door. Because timing.

Jim takes one look at the inside of the room and gently places the serving tray on the table before beating a hasty retreat. Smart kid.

“Jim!”

The scout in question pauses at the door and cautiously sticks his head back into the room. “Yes, my lady?” he asks blandly. I narrow my eyes at him,

“…seriously?” I mutter, because we’ve had the talk him and I. The _I’m not a lady_ talk. He’s heard the speech. “You’re a little shit,” I tell him, stabbing at him with a finger in a way that promises retribution. No cake for him. “Bring me a pot of the mint tea, yeah?” Jim nods and disappears – successfully, this time.

“You know Jim?” Josephine asks, clearly intrigued by my overly familiar way with their errand boy.

Max snorts. “She knows just about everyone.” I shrug. That’s not _exactly_ true. Saying I know everyone is probably a bit of a stretch but I could probably recognize at least half of Haven’s residents on sight. Maybe more. Most of the soldiers, certainly, as well as any refugees living in tents.

“He stops by the _Maiden_ to eat every day. Breakfast and dinner but never lunch so I suspect he usually works a night shift and sleeps between meals. He always looks a bit shit in the mornings,” I add as further explanation. Josephine and Cassandra are both staring at me in surprise but Leliana… well. Leliana’s looking at me like I’ve just done something interesting.

I’m not entirely sure that’s a good look.

I don’t want to be interesting.

“Like I said,” Max drawls, “she’s got the whole village by their balls.” He sounds distinctly smug over it.

I roll my eyes.

“Ball- _less_ ,” I correct and catch his eye, making _give me_ motions with my hand. Max shoves the basket across to me – with his non dominant hand, because he’s probably got the dominant one curled around a knife, the paranoid bastard – and then the little towel wrapped bundle of pastries.  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you eat any of this,” I reassure the body beneath my hand that gives an almost violent shiver when the food comes too close. The tide has retreated some, not much but enough so that I no longer feel it trying to climb out of my skin and swallow me whole. Instead, it’s a tangled hum of pain and emptiness buzzing beneath my palm and a war of fire and ice inside my veins.  I could probably lessen it more, make it disappear almost entirely by taking my hand off of him. Make Max happier too, because now that I’ve got the basket of food he’s back to staring at Cullen and imagining all the different ways he can take the larger man apart, but I don’t. I can’t.

Well, no. I can. I just…

Standing bereft in the darkness, with everything gone, that feeling is still too strong inside my head. It’s been dulled now that I’ve slept and woken again but it’s still there, beating away behind my ribs and the pain that comes with the tide is bracing. Whatever this is, whatever it is that’s happening when I touch the Commander it means that I’m not alone.

That he’s not alone.

And I have a terrible, sneaking suspicion that he’s a man who has lived a life having to deal with this pain with no one beside him.

_You are something else entirely._

I shiver.

“Not yet anyway,” I add after a moment and absentmindedly stroke my thumb across the spasming muscles in his back. “Tea first.”

Everyone is suspiciously silent as I load up plates with the meat and egg pastries, thin slices of cheese, and pieces of the pumpkin-esque pie I’d made out of a hard skinned winter squash stashed in the cold cellar. The air is suddenly heavy, the lightened atmosphere brought by totally inappropriate joking vanishing like smoke on the wind. Jim brings a second tray of tea, the _spicysweetcool_ scent of peppermint wafting up in thing spirals of steam, and I toss him one of the breakfast pastries as thanks.

“By the balls,” Max mutters under his breath as Jim flashes me a grateful smile.

I throw my plate at his head.

He catches it, of course. The bastard.

“Here,” I press a mug of the peppermint tea into Cullen’s shaking hands. “Slowly.”

It’s not until I take my hands away from his that I realize that I had kept a hand on him the entire time I prepped everyone else’s plates.

“So,” I look around the table. Max is the only one that’s legitimately eating. Everyone else is picking at their dishes like a sick bird. Josephine’s eyes are actually kind of red and poofy, like she’s been crying. Fuck. “Anyone want to tell me why you all look like someone’s kicked your favorite puppy?”

“No,” Cassandra growls mulishly and stabs at her piece of pie so violently that one of the fork tines bends.

“Cassandra…” Josephine begins, exasperated, but Leliana cuts her off with a hand to her wrist.

“The Chantry has denounced us. “

I blink.

“… and this is a surprise?” I ask cautiously, confused even as Max rolls his eyes.

“Fuck the Chantry,” he snaps and shoves another bite in his mouth.

Cassandra slams her fist down on the table so hard that the whole thing rattles. “Have you no respect?” she shouts at him, eyes blazing. Max takes a sip of his tea.

“For the Chantry? No.”

I sigh.

Jesus, Max. Them’s fightin’ words. I mean, seriously. I’ve got the beautiful mountain that is Cullen between Cassandra and I and I can still see how wide her nostrils flare. It ain’t pretty.

“You are a member of the Inquisition! You…”

“Ah. I’m going to stop you right there _Seeker Pentaghast_ ,” Max holds up a hand as he chops off her words with his own, “and point out that just five days ago the four of you sat across from me and wove this fantastical tale about how Thedas needed a power that _was not the Chantry._ A power that could _rein the Chantry in._ Perhaps you remember this conversation also? Or was it a fever dream on my part?”

If Max were sitting any closer I’m pretty sure Cassandra would have throttled him on the spot, Rift Closing Mark of Power on his hand be damned.

I offer Cullen a small piece of cheese and he takes it without looking at me. Instead, he eyes the cheese like it’s a rapid animal that’s about to leap up and gnaw his face off but he starts nibbling on it anyway. After I poke him in the arm.

“It was no dream,” answers Cassandra, glaring.

For a minute I think that Max is going to poke at her some more – she _is_ ridiculously easy to wind up – but in the end he just shrugs. “Try to remember that.”

Cassandra’s mouth works wordlessly for a minute, her cheeks a very interesting sort of red that speaks of her continual desire to commit homicide more than anything else. Max ignores her and takes another bite of his pie and I decide to butt in and, you know, actually figure out what the hell is going on.

“So, umm, back to the whole denouncing thing. Why are you acting like you’re surprised at this turn of events?” The three other women turn to stare at me as I poke another piece of cheese into Cullen’s fingers. “Oh my god, you’re _actually surprised_? How are you actually surprised? Of course they were going to piss on your cornflakes!”

Josephine at least as the grace to look sheepish. “It is not entirely unexpected,” she murmurs. “We had just hoped…”

“…we are the Hands of the Divine!” Oh, look, Cassandra’s back. Awesome sauce.

I stare at her, unimpressed, over Cullen’s head. “You say that like it means something.”

Cassandra sputters indignantly. “I-I, w-we…!”

“What Cassandra is attempting to explain is that we were Most Holy’s closest confidants. We were her friends, her representatives. Anything we did was at her behest. Anything we did could be considered an act of the Divine herself,” Leliana explains when it becomes clear that Cassandra isn’t going to be able to get past the first the first few syllables.

“And you’re still saying that like _it means something_.” I point out gently. “Look. I know I’m not from around here and my grasp on your culture and politics is currently limited to what I pick up in gossip and stories _but_ even I can see that it’s a little ridiculous to expect everyone to roll out a welcome mat for your shiny new organization. Whatever happened up on that mountain means that the power structure for the Chantry has been decimated, right? Everyone who was anyone – except for you guys, apparently – is _gone_. That probably made a lot of power hungry underlings happy. They probably thought _Shit, yes, now I get to get stuff done_ but then you come waltzing back in with this Inquisition thing telling them _Oh, hell no, let me do it_.” I stare back at them. “People in power do not like to give up power. That’s just politics 101. They were always going to denounce you. Even if you’d done this whole thing with your Divine alive. They were always going to push back. You’re a threat to them.”

Cassandra growls. “I hate politics.”

“Everyone hates politics,” I retort with a snort, “Well, everyone but career politicians and crazy people but that’s not an excuse to stick your head up your ass and be stupid.”

This. God damn it, _this_ is why I’m going to die a quick and painful death here on Thedas. Or, at least, I will if Cassandra has anything to say about it. After which, Max will murder her and the entire world will fall into chaos. Or something equally dramatic.

I really need to stop mouthing off to the angry woman with a sword.

“Avery is right.”

I whip my head around to stare at Josephine so quickly that I’m probably in danger of damaging something in my spine. “I… _what_?”

Despite the general air of murder and hysteria hanging in the air like a cheap perfume, Josephine’s mouth twitches. “You are right,” she repeats. “We were foolish to hope that the Chantry would, if not side with us, than at least step aside and let us right the world as we wished.”

Well. This is new.

“Of course she’s right,” Max points out and if he sounds any more smug I might actually let Cassandra punch him in his handsome face because _Jesus_ , boy. “The Chantry has been fucking us all over for hundreds of years. It’s not like they’re suddenly going to want to bloody stop.”

“Are you purposefully antagonizing?” Cassandra snarls and I can hear the creaking of her fists tightening.

Max offers her a lazy grin and pops the last of his pie into his mouth. “Almost always.”

Cassandra is so red in the face that I kind of expect her to just… explode. Like, literally. _Boom_. Mushroom cloud of fury and bloody bits splattered all over the room. She’s fierce, but she’s angry. So fucking angry. _Too_ angry. Too angry for this, at least. This anger is hot and bright and overwhelming, a pot left to boil on too high a heat and now it’s foamed over and splashed across the stovetop in an cascade of sizzle and smoke.

“Arrogant bastard! People are _dying_  and…”

“Yes, Seeker, people _are_ dying,” Max snaps and all of his levity is suddenly just gone, his voice as hard and cold as the steel he has in his hands.  “People are out there, _dying,_ and you are more concerned with my opinion of your precious Chantry than you are with their lives!”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen groans under his breath as Leliana sucks in a sharp breath on my other side and Josephine lets out a shocked little _“Oh!”_ that’s muffled by the hand she has clamped over her mouth.

Cassandra goes red, then purple, then white, her face cycling through the colors so quickly that it pretty much just turns into a mottled kaleidoscope of colors all at once.

And then she goes down.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I mutter as I dart around Cullen. He catches her, narrowly, with a grunt of discomfort at the necessary quickness of the movement and a hand around her arm. It keeps her from hitting the floor in a clatter of metal but it can’t be comfortable for either one of them. Max is halfway out of his seat, a flash of naked steel half hidden by his hand, but both Josephine and Leliana are frozen, staring at Cassandra as if the very idea of her collapsing is so foreign that the scene before their eyes is incomprehensible. And maybe it is but goddamn it, Cassandra is _heavy_ and Cullen is still point five seconds away from completely losing his shit. “Sit,” I order, not unkindly as I shove her down into the chair she’d refused to sit in when we first arrived.

There’s no black tide when I touch her, no tsunami of emotions and sensations that reach up and slap me. There’s just an echo. A dull, breathless sort of ache that makes me think that someone’s hollowed out my chest with a dull, rusty spoon.

“Oh, you sad little rage monster,” I breathe as I awkwardly run my hand over the short, dark strands of her hair. Cassandra starts the touch, her shoulders going as stiff as a board as she makes some sort of _hmmmphing,_ unhappy noise deep in her throat.  I don’t think the unhappiness is directed at me so I just keep petting her like a skittish dog with one hand. With the other I pour a cup of tea and stir a rather obscene amount of honey into it. Aware that everyone is still gawking at us like we’re a five car pile-up I press the mug into her hands. “Deep breaths,” I murmur encouragingly. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

“I-I am aware of how to breathe!” the steely woman snaps but it’s lacking at least half of the bite it would have held even five minutes ago so winner winner chicken dinner.

I pet her head but I keep my mouth shut. She may be calming enough to dull her edges a little – and I mean, seriously, like _very little_. Just enough to take the sting off – but I’m pretty sure anything I could say in response to that would come across as condescending and then she’d morph right back into Rage Monster Supreme. And if that happens she and Max are probably going to kill each other and I refuse to be held responsible for that.

Not that it would be my fault. But still.

Jesus, I need a drink.

Or sleep. I am so not awake enough to deal with this shit.

Or both. Both sounds good. I wonder if I can convince Jim to find me some alcohol. This is a church. Surely there’s some stashed around here somewhere.

Sighing, I stroke Cassandra’s hair one last time and nudge a pastry onto the plate in front of Cullen before I wander back around the table. “Is anyone else feeling the inclination to collapse, throw a fit, or otherwise…” I make a vague exploding gesture with my hands. Max snorts.

“I think I’m good sweetheart,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around my waist. I sag against in gratefully but resist the gentle tug that would have me tumbling all the way into his lap. I give the other two women a pointed look. Leliana looks back calmly, those big blue eyes of hers narrowed in speculation as she stares at me. I shiver beneath the weight of her scrutiny.

Leliana’s all good. Or rather, she’s totally, _totally_ not but she at least is quite capable of keeping all the crazy locked up. I like that. I appreciate that.

Josephine, on the other hand… Well, she’s looking a little misty eyed but for the life of me I can’t quite tell if that’s because she’s about to lose it or if she’s just being emotional over my poor attempts at comforting Cassandra. “I am well, my la… Avery. Thank you for your concern,” she gives me a small smile that is positively blinding.

I blink.

“Awesome. Because I do not have enough emotional spoons to deal with everyone’s shit. I don’t even have enough emotional spoons to deal with _my_ shit,” I grumble and finally give in to the lure of Max’s lap. Plus, if I’m sitting on him then he’s less likely to stab someone.

Theoretically.

“Alright. So the Chantry has denounced the Inquisition. How does this change the plans you had put together?” Max asks after several moments of silence.

Josephine sighs. “Technically,” she begins, “they only denounced you. As the Herald of Andraste.”

“Well, I’ve never claimed to be the Herald of Andraste. In fact, I’ve been quite vocal in the opposite direction,” Max points out. “Ask pretty much anyone in this bloody village that I’ve spoken to in the past week. So unless you’ve been…” he trails off. “ _Bloody void_! Have you been _telling_ people that I’m the Herald of Andraste?”

The slightly uncomfortable look on Josephine’s face is not promising.

I sigh.

Seriously, _so much therapy_.

“We have not,” Leliana cuts in, crossing her arms across her chest. “…but neither have we discouraged those who have named you so.”

“That was not part of our deal, Nightingale.”

“You cannot possibly mean for me to tell every single person that you are _not_ the Herald of Andraste!”

“No, but you can certainly make sure your scouts know. That your soldiers and your secretaries and your bloody diplomats _know_ ,” Max snaps back. “If you want this Inquisition thing to work you can’t build it on my supposed divinity. You do that and this whole mess is going to fall over as soon as someone so much as breathes on us. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be part of this.”

“Then why are you?” Cassandra growls – or, I think it’s supposed to be a growl. In truth she just sounds immeasurably tired.

“Because there are people out there,” Max stabs a finger at the large door, his other arm tightening around me to the point where it’s almost painful to keep me from being jostled of his lap. “Innocent people. Guilty people. _Regular_ people who just want to live their lives – to grow their crops and make their goods and sing their songs – without having to worry about their homes being burnt to the ground or a squadron of Templars dragging them from their beds in the middle of the night. I’m here for them because apparently everyone else at this table has forgotten about them.”

I poke him in the ribs.

“… everyone but Avery,” he corrects instantly and I very nearly poke him again. Jesus, I hadn’t meant to imply _that_. I open my mouth to object but find myself swallowing the words back down as his lips brush against my temple.

His touch is like the wind, skin against skin blowing the debris of a hundred thoughts and a dozen emotions from where they nip and lap at me – a thousand dogs, a thousand little waves. He does not make it quiet, not like Solas had. Instead, he reorganizes the chaos around him. He is the eye of the storm and with the touch of his skin against mine he draws me out of the whirling chaos.

I slump against his shoulder like puppet whose strings have been cut.

God, I am tired.

For a moment no one says anything. Not that there’s really anything to say. I mean _whoops, my bad_ seems a little un-classy for the situation. True, but probably not the thing to say in polite company. Of course, Josephine’s the only person in this room that qualifies as polite company so…

“With… with the Chantry making this move it will be more difficult for us to secure the help we need to close the Breach,” Josephine finally begins, wrenching our little pow wow back on track through sheer force of will.

Max raises his left hand and wriggles his fingers. “And here I thought that was all on me.”

“You have been talking to Solas as much as I,” says Leliana. “You’ll have to close it, yes, but more power is needed. Magical power, which means that we’ll need to speak to what is left of the mages.”

“… or the Templars,” Cullen finally speaks up.

“Fuck the Templars.”

“I know you don’t like them but I used to be one and I know their abilities!” Cullen argues. “I believe it possible for those abilities to suppress the power of the Breach enough for you to overpower and close it with _that_.” He nods at the glowy green mark of doom on Max’s hands.

“Fuck their abilities,” snarls Max. “It’s a magical problem. Let’s actually let the _people with magic_ handle it!”

“And expose that many mages to demons? We’ll be overrun with abominations!”

“This is not Kinloch!” Cullen flinches so badly that tea sloshes over the edge of his mug, spilling across his hands and the top of the map, turning the _Waking Sea_ into a swirl of ink and tea. Josephine makes a low sound of disproval and Leliana one of shock though I’m not quite sure if both are spurred by Max’s words or by the fact that Cullen has inadvertently damaged the big ass map. “ _This is not Kinloch_ ,” Max repeats harshly.

And shit, I'm missing something again. Something big. It has to be, to make Cullen look like that. Fuck, even Cassandra's gone a little green around the edges.  

“Arguing over this is pointless or the moment because, as it stands, with the Chantry’s denouncement of Lord Trevelyan we have neither the necessary influence or political standing to persuade either party to join our cause,” once again: Josephine. Cool head and pow wow badass. I am one thousand percent certain that without her everyone else would stand around arguing until either they killed each other or Leliana got tired of them arguing and simply killed them to make them shut up. “We are going to have to build the influence we need.”

Max’s disgusted noise is nearly as practiced as Cassandra’s. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Leliana and Josephine share a long look. One long enough that even Cassandra begins to look a little concerned over in the corner where she’s still sipping at her tea and grimacing at how sweet I made it. She doesn’t stop drinking it though. Sugar soothes the savage beast once again. Fuck, I should just make a big batch of cookie dough and start passing it out. Call it _the World Peace Initiative_ or something like that.

“We have received word from a Revered Mother – a Mother Giselle – who is working at a little settlement near Redcliffe, in the Hinterlands,” Leliana admits. “She wishes to speak with you.”

“With me? Or with the Herald of Andraste?” Max asks.

Leliana takes a deep breath. “Both, I imagine.”

Max swears. “I am not a diplomat,” he points out.

“No, you’re not,” Josephine agrees blandly – so blandly in fact that I can’t actually tell if she’s simply agreeing with him or if she’s secretly being insulting. “But we need all the help we can get.”

Now it’s Cassandra making the disgusted noise. Clearly, not everyone thinks _that_. And actually, I can’t say I disagree with her. Desperation isn’t a good frame of mind to select allies from. Beggars can’t be choosers is how beggars end up getting stabbed in the back.

“… fine.”

“What?” I pull back from Max’s lap enough to stare at him.

“I said, fine,” he repeats slowly, meeting my gaze. “I’ll go speak with this Mother Giselle on one condition.”

“And that is?”

Max’s gaze flickers from my face to Leliana’s. “Avery comes with me.”

“ _What?!”_ I repeat rather hysterically.

Leliana apparently agrees. “The Hinterlands are a complete war zone right now,” she warns. “You can’t possibly want to drag her into that.”

The smile that Max gives her is not a pretty one. “And you can’t possibly think that I’m going to leave her here with _you_ ,” it’s an all-encompassing you but let’s be honest, no one misses the way his eyes glance at Cullen when he says it. “I know how the game is played, Nightingale. I’m not leaving you with a hostage to guarantee my good behavior.”

I blink.

Oh.

_Oh._

I twist to stare at the people on the other side of the table. None of them look particularly guilty, there is that, but Leliana’s a stone cold fox. I’d have to be delusional to think that I could tell when she’s lying.

“Look at it like this,” Max continues as Josephine opens her mouth. “I’m a killer. And when you’re a killer the answer to every problem looks like death. Avery is not a killer.”

“… so you want to drag her into the middle of battle to keep you from killing?” Cassandra does not sound impressed.

“No. I want to drag her to the middle of a warzone because she actually cares about the regular people.”

Skeptical silence.

“Look,” Max tries again. “I’ll go and talk with this Mother Giselle. Maybe our talk goes well, maybe it doesn’t, but while I’m doing _that_ she’ll be… herself. There will probably be cooking of some sort. And copious amounts of tea. So when I come back from simultaneously denying my divinity and persuading the Revered Mother to throw her lot in with the Inquisition it won’t matter if I’ve succeeded because _Avery_ will have. Give her a day and she’ll have the entire settlement by the balls and they’ll love her for it. Don’t believe me? Try leaving the Chantry and taking a stroll through Haven. You might be surprised at what you hear. It may not come with council votes or royal coffers but the opinion of the public is a powerful thing.”

And I really, really do not like the way that makes Leliana and Josephine look at me, all sharp and speculative.

Not one single fucking bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should clarify that I do, in fact, love Cassandra. But she and Max are like oil and water and no matter how hard you try to mix them together they aren't going to stick unless you've got something in there binding them together. Plus, I think that the game severely undersells Cassandra's emotional state. Not only has she just witnessed this horrible disaster and had to fight demons for days but she's lost the Divine, she's estranged from the Seekers, and her lover is now dead. She's got nothing left but her faith and this half formed purpose that is the Inquisition.
> 
> Next up (and I have part of it already written so I feel like I can promise this without lying through my teeth) this fic finally earns its Explicit rating. It only took us fourteen chapters and almost 64,000 words to get there. Sorry?
> 
> Your comments and support are everything.


	15. Windows to the Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... funny story. You know how I promised smut in this chapter? Well, um, despite the fact that I had a third of the chapter written - or what I thought would be a third of the chapter - it ended up much, much longer. And at first I just intended to give you a really long chapter but when everything was finally written it was almost 11k words and there was a definite break conveniently located towards the middle so... Bad news: there is no smut in this chapter. Good news (?): you get a chapter today **and** a chapter tomorrow and tomorrow's chapter definitely has sex. 
> 
> I swear every time I try to definitively promise you something Avery pats my head condescendingly and murmurs, "Oh, you sweet summer child." Max just laughs. The asshole.

“I’m not going with you.”

Max looks over at me from where he’s shutting the door behind his entrance. We’re alone in the kitchen, for now. Ellana is at the front of the house dealing with the last of the lunch crowd. “Of course you are,” he says and leans back against the door.

My eyebrows shoot up the expanse of my forehead, fingers curling around the ever so slight jut of my hips as I turn to face him. “Are you going to make me?” Because if he’s going to try that then we are going to have a Big Fucking Problem, codependency notwithstanding. I may not be the paragon of Strong Independent Womanhood but neither am I a damsel in distress.

Max gives me an odd look. “Of course not.”

I open my mouth… and then stop, blinking at him like an idiot. “…that was not what I expected you to say,” I finally manage to get out.

“You thought I would force you?”

I blink some more. Because idiot. “I just… well… yes and no?” I finally offer, ever so elegantly. Smooth, Avery.  So fucking smooth. I drag a palm down my face and let out a sigh. “No, okay? Forcing doesn’t really seem like your cup of tea,” I try to explain, “but people have tried to force things in the past – not here!” I hurry to clarify at the darkening of his face. “God, no. Everyone here has been decent. I just… you seem really intent on having me go.”

“Why are you so intent on not going?”

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline because, seriously, that has to be a joke of some sort. It’s not, though. Or if it is Max has got the best poker face in the god damn world. Universe. Multi-verse? Regardless, he’s got it, because right now he’s staring at me and he is one hundred percent serious.

I blink.

I force myself to stop blinking. If I do it anymore my eyelids are likely to simply drop off my face out of over use.

“Um. Are you serious?” I ask him, completely thrown. “Have you looked at me recently? Like at all? Not like _that_ , you asshole,” I add half a second later as Max crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a look that I can feel dragging against my skin as he undresses me. “I meant _seriously_.”

“I am looking at you seriously,” Max smirks at my chest. “I am very serious about the way that I’m looking at you.”

“I’m a tiny, little white girl who has no practical life talents besides cooking and binging eight seasons of a show in less than eight days.”

“I have no idea what last bit means but I’m pretty sure that you’re wrong.” And despite the rather lecherous grin still playing with the edges of his lips he actually seems to believe that. Christ on a cracker.

“Oh, honey. Baby. Sugar plum…”

“… _sugar plum?_ ”

“…No. No, I’m _not_. I am a weak little civilian and the Hinterlands are a _fucking war zone_. I am a _chef_! Take me out this,” I gesture madly at the kitchen, “and I am the Jon Snow-est of Jon Snows – _I know nothing_.”

“That’s not true,” Max growls sharply. “You are…”

“…don’t you dare say that I’m more dangrou…”

“…more dangerous than you give yourself credit for.”

“I don’t know why you keep saying that! Sure, fine. I talk to people. I listen. I give them tea when they’re cold and bread when they’re hungry and sweets when they’re sad. That doesn’t give me some magical ability to waltz through a raging battle like _Look at me! Look at me! You can’t touch this!_...”

“…it worked pretty well for you up in the Temple!”

“…ninety-nine point nine-nine percent sure that… Hey! _That_ was a fucking fluke and you know it! I spent most of that nightmare hiding behind Varric and letting you drag me back and forth because breaking my ankles in stripper heels seemed better than _dying_!”

I’ve moved while I’ve talked – shouted, really – and so has Max so that now we’re standing in the middle of the kitchen with naught but a foot between us and chests heaving with the exertion of our discussion. Or at least my chest is heaving. Max still looks disgustingly collected except for a splash of pink along the blades of his cheekbones.

 I’ll take it.

His fingertips are feather light against my face, tracing the arch of my own cheekbones – not nearly as deadly as his – and the soft curve of my jaw. “You will not die.” He says it calmly, serenely, an inescapable fact. There is snow on the mountains. Fire is hot. The sun rises in the east. You will not die.

Facts.

“You can’t promise that,” I whisper. “It’s a war zone, not just one very big, very angry demon trapped in a hole on a mountaintop.”

His lips twitch. “Your lack of faith in my abilities is insulting,” he says, tucking a wayward piece of my hair behind my ear. The juxtaposition of the gentleness against the biting sarcasm is jarring and I’m torn between leaning into the comfort of his touch and flinching away from his voice before it makes me bleed.

“It’s not a lack of faith,” I correct, settling for taking his hand in my own. “It’s concern that you’re going to get your stupid ass killed because you’re too busy protecting _my_ stupid ass.”

“Your ass is far from stupid,” Max retorts promptly. “It’s a bloody work of art…” and I snort because my ass is pretty damn fine in the right pair of skinny jeans but I’m no J-Lo. My ass does not belong in the Louvre. “…and dying for it would be enormously better than dying for a host of other stupid things. But I’m not going to die.”

There is snow on the mountains. Fire is hot. The sun rises in the east. You will not die. I’m not going to die.

Facts.

Cocky bastard.

“Why are you so intent on my coming with you?” I ask, because clearly my reasons for staying are not being met with any actual thought or consideration. There has to be a reason for that. Max might be a cocky bastard, there’s certainly been enough evidence for _that –_ but I’ve yet to see anything to make me think that he’s actually stupid. “And don’t give me that bullshit about me being _nice_ or _influential_ or whatever it was that made Leliana look at me like a tap dancing bullfrog.”

“That was not bullshit. Those are completely valid reasons.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. They’re not why you want me to go though.” They’re not. I’m sure of it. They’re just a nice bonus.

Max stares at me for a long moment, fingers twitching against my palm, before he admits, “I can’t leave you with them.”

Now it’s my turn to stare. So I do. Rather blankly.

“Them?” I repeat, searching his face. “Josephine?” _No. “_ Leliana?” A slight twitch his eye, nothing more. “ _Cullen_?” Ah, there’s the poker face. I sigh. “They’re not going to hurt me,” I tell him. “Might be as suspicious as fuck but they wouldn’t…”

“The Nightingale would peel the skin from your flesh with her bare hands and leave you crying in the dirt if she thought her precious Maker had need of it,” Max interrupts but his voice isn’t harsh, even if his words are.

And that’s… well. That’s fucking terrifying. Not horribly surprising, all things considered, ‘cause I don’t think I’ve managed to be an enclosed space with Leliana yet without my little lizard brain making some sort of mouse-caught-in-a-trap noise.

Still terrifying though.

 “So… Cullen, then.” I’m not surprised. I’m so not surprised that part of me wonders why I didn’t just cut through the crap and bring up blonde and beautiful in the first place. “What did he do?” I ask softly, gently, my thumb brushing over his knuckles. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing to me,” Max manages to huff out hoarsely.  I wait, still stroking his knuckles. “He’s the Knight Captain of Kirkwall,” he murmurs and I don’t roll my eyes. I _don’t_. It’s not Max’s fault that I don’t have all the pieces to put the puzzle together. Not totally, anyway. It’s obviously something that is pretty well known to Thedas at large. At least the basics. Kind of like the whole mages and the Fade thing.

“And what does that _mean_?” I gently push.

Max sighs. “Come with me?” He holds out a hand. I eye it suspiciously. He’s got very nice hands but they’re not exactly an answer to my question. “I promise it will make sense. I just… I need you to see something.”

It’s the quiet exhaustion that makes me accept his offering, the dull hurt of a wound that has never stopped bleeding.

I nod. “Just let me…” I motion at the door leading out to the tavern proper and he nods. It doesn’t take more than a minute to stick my head out to the front of the house and tell Ellana that I’m leaving. Again. She doesn’t look too panicked though but it’s that magical lull between midday and dinner so there’s not too much to panic about to begin with. Plus, there is already stew bubbling away in a pot at the edge of the fire and if I make any more bread I’m not actually going to have a place to put it so… It will all be fine. Hopefully.

Max is waiting by the back door when I return and holds out his hand as I approach. I grab my coat from the hook on the back wall I throw it on and button it up in quick movements before accepting his invitation, weaving my fingers with his own.  For a moment we walk without speaking, our feet crunching against the crusted over snow on the edges of the road, detouring around the wide paths of muddy slush that has formed beneath hundreds of boots and the faint, fleeting warmth of the sun.

We walk.

For a minute I think we’re going to go meandering down the little backroads that I haven’t visited yet – at least not while I’m awake – but a few quick turns leads us back out to the main road and down toward the gates. I raise an eyebrow when Max leads me out of the enormous double doors but I don’t say anything. Though I do return the greetings of the guards posted there with a smile and a small nod of my head.

“About ten years ago Kinloch Hold - one of the Circle Towers for Ferelden – fell under the control of a particularly vicious abomination,” Max begins suddenly. I blink, automatically tuning out everything else to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. “Officially, there is not much known about what happened. The Templars' records are sparse and those that survived it have said very little about what happened. However, the man who trained me,” he adds with a touch of fondness, “was a member of the party that eventually retook the Circle and he told me much of what he knew. Sometimes not by choice.”

I must look as apprehensive as I feel at that ominous caveat because Max lets out a little laugh. “Nothing as sinister as you’re thinking,” he promises hastily. “Nightmares. Zev frequently had nightmares about the whole ordeal. Said it was one of the worst things he’s ever seen.”

I can’t help but ask, “How so?” because I am an idiot. Well, not really an idiot because I’ve got the uncomfortable feeling that this is shit I need to know, if only to keep Max from gutting Cullen in the middle of the church. But still an idiot. Because if a master assassin or whatever is saying it’s one of the worst things he’s ever seen… well. Shit is bad, then.

“A mage named Uldred attempted to summon a pride demon and was overtaken. The abomination then offered the mages in the tower the choice of turning to blood magic or dying.”

“… and I’m guessing that blood magic is bad?” I ask, hesitantly.

“Objectively, I suppose that depends on who you ask. The chantry certainly teaches so,” Max responds. “To practice blood magic – void, even having the Templars _think_ that they’re practicing blood magic – is enough to warrant a mage’s death.”

“That’s… that’s kind of shitty. I mean _blood magic_ sounds bad but…?”  Bad things happen to those that assume. Bad things. Stupid things.

“In the end, it is like any other power or weapon – it’s only as dangerous as the hands that wield it. I’ve met blood mages who never seek any blood beyond the bounds of their own flesh to power their magic. I’ve also seen an entire room of slaves slaughtered to fuel a spell.” His words are calm, even, and matter of fact. It’s why it takes a minute or so for his words to sink in and when they do…

“Fuck,” I whisper as my stomach clenches against the picture my mind paints with his words.  I’ve watched too many horror movies. Or too much Criminal Minds. Or too much… _something_.  Shit, but I do not need that image, that… _everything_ … inside my head.  I swallow roughly. “So death now or death later,” I force myself to say, to show that I’m tracking the information that he’s giving me. “Hell of a choice to make.”

Max shrugs. Clearly, he doesn’t think so. But then again, the man has skills. Choosing to live, even with the potential for compromised principles, allows for the possibility of escape or revenge. Or even a clean death at his own hands.

 “A fair number opted to live,” he continues. “Even more opted to die – and even then, instead of being granted death they were forced into becoming abominations themselves. The Knight-Commander and a handful of Templars managed to escape and seal the Tower, trapping everyone else inside of it. A senior enchanter managed to barricade herself in the lower levels with a few of the youngest mages, most of them children.  The mages that chose blood magic hunted and destroyed the rest of the Circle’s Templars. More than a few were tortured for a time before their deaths.”

_Poor bastards_ , I think.

“Before all of that happened there were close to three hundred people living in the Tower. When it was all over there were scarcely more than a dozen survivors: the Knight Commander and those with him,” he ticks off on his fingers, “the First Enchanter, a Senior Enchanter plus a handful of children, and one Templar who had been sealed inside the tower.”

“ _Cullen_ ,” I breathe before I can stop myself, the pieces of the puzzle fitting themselves into place.  When we had first met, for a moment I had thought… sitting there on the surface of his golden gaze: a room, a tower, destroyed with bodies stacked like kindling all about and the rush strewn floor heavy with blood and broken flesh.

A memory.

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_ on a fucking stick.

_You are something else entirely._

“Cullen,” Max agrees and I could be wrong but I think it is the first time I have ever heard him use the other man’s name.  “He was young, just a few years out of his training, and had been kept as a prisoner for over a month. Taunted day and night by blood mages, demons, and abominations and forced to watch what they did to the other Templars they captured.”

I shut my eyes, overwhelmed. “Jesus Christ,” I wheeze. It might actually be a prayer then, a plea for someone, something, to rewrite the story that I’m hearing. Fuck.

“Perhaps understandably, he wanted to raze the entire Tower to the ground. To destroy every mage that had been inside it – guilty or not, child or not – to ensure that they wouldn’t suddenly get ideas and make it happen again. It was not permitted and he was sent away from the Circle to recover…”

A slightly hysterical bit of laughter escapes from between my lips. “How do you even begin to recover from something like that?” Shit, and I thought I needed therapy. And yet here the man was, leading an army and fighting demons.

The smile that Max gives me is sharp and full of teeth. “You begin to understand. Within a year the Order had reassigned him to Kirkwall,” and I know enough of Kirkwall now, have listened to enough of Varric’s stories that my first reaction is a silent _Oh, shit_.

Or not so silent, judging by the quirk of Max’s mouth.

“Knight Commander Meredith was a charismatic, uncompromising woman who believed all magic to be a curse. That it must be controlled or… _purified_ with _blood and fire_.” There’s something in his voice that makes me think that _that_ is a direct quote and even the thought of it, of it what it could mean makes my stomach heave again.

Apparently hating what one fears is another universal, multi-dimensional truth.

Fuck, but that’s a depressing thought. That even here humanity, _people_ , are still petty minded creatures ruled by their fear.

“Now, can you imagine what two people, united in such a view might accomplish?”

I can, but in a way I don’t need to. Cullen’s own words on the matter are damning enough: _My biggest is that I let my fear turn me into a monster._ What does it take, I wonder, for a man who has been held captive and tortured by demons and abominations to call himself a monster?

Nothing good.

 “Cullen was more or less in charge of the Circle while Meredith focused her attentions on the city itself, building her power base and eventually spreading her influence to the rest of the Order and to other Circles. The fall of Kinloch Hold affected all the Circles and they capitalized on that. They dehumanized mages, spoke against them and pushed for rules that left mages without anywhere to turn and normalized so many things that should not be normal. Beneath Kirkwall’s influence mages became a cancer – no longer human, elf, or kossith but a disease to be _destroyed_.”

I dare another glance at Max’s face, the pointed features twisted in a wordless snarl of fury. “Max,” I ask, gently squeezing his hand. “What did they do?”

“Nothing to _me_ ,” he whispers.

I blink.

I blink again.

And then, oh Jesus, then it all falls into place, slotting together like a fucking game of tetris.

“Your sister,” I breathe, remembering his words of nearly a week ago. “She was a mage.”

“She was. In Ostwick. She…”

“…died,” I finish gently. “You said.”

He shakes his head. “Worse.”

_Worse_. What is worse than death?  Abominations, clearly. Torture? Rape?

“Worse,” he repeats, reading my thoughts off of my face and nods. I follow the direction with my eyes and blink. At some point in our conversation we’ve come to a stop, nestled up against rocky outcropping and facing what I can only assume is a blacksmith’s place of business. The air is filled with the sounds of hammers pounding and metal clinking, with drifts of smoke and steam and the sharp tang of heated metal.  Max gives my hand a gentle tug, pulling me after him as he starts across the expanse of defrosted earth. “Galen!”

A man near the front of the smithy straightens at Max’s voice.  “Greetings, Lord Trevelyan,” he announces politely as he turns. There’s an odd sort of flatness to his voice and I shiver, shrinking into Max’s side at the sound of it. “What may I assist you with today?”

_Wrong_ , my mind screams as he looks to Max, ignoring me entirely. Instinctively I plant my feet firmly in the dirt and promptly stumble when my piss poor attempt at immovable object meets Max’s unstoppable force. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_.

“Just checking on my order, Galen. When is it due to be finished?” Max continues as he stops in front of the other man, dragging me with him. I can’t do anything but stare. Well, stare and try to hide underneath Max’s arm. I’m being horrendously rude but, given that Galen still hasn’t bothered to spare me a glance – and I’m not sure whether to be insulted or relieved at that, honestly. Probably a bit of both – no one has noticed. Hopefully.

Galen is a little taller than Max and carefully dressed. His clothes are worn and patched but obviously were once part of a uniform of some kind. His appearance is neat – his hair is neatly trimmed to jaw length, with half of it pulled back, likely to keep it from his eyes and his face is clean shaven with not a speck of stubble in sight. In fact, the only thing that ruins the wholesome American pie image is the tattoo on his head. Or at least I think it is a tattoo. It’s certainly colored like a tattoo – henna red with a bright glimmer of gold around the edges – but it’s raised like scar.

Of course, I have no fucking idea how non modern tattoos work, so… maybe that’s just how they do them?

It’s another thing to add to my ever growing list of questions. 

“Master Harritt is overseeing its completion himself,” the flat voice responds after consulting a leather bound book tucked onto a small table near the front of the workspace. “You may come by and retrieve it the day after tomorrow.”

Max is quick to offer him an easy grin but Galen does not return. “My thanks, Galen. I will let you return to your work.”

“Your thanks are not necessary,” Galen replies, already turning away.

His eyes, wide and blue as a summer sky, catch on my own for just a second – half a second. Less, really – as he dismisses us and I can’t stop the full body tremor that races through me. Nothing. There’s nothing there. The eyes are the window to the soul, or some such shit, and there’s nothing _there_.

There’s no black tide waiting to drag me down; no grief or anger waiting to slap at me. There’s no sorrow, no helplessness, no sour fear to clog at my throat. There’s no happiness either, no honey scented laughter, no wonder or confusion, no joy or pain. No hopes. No dreams. No thoughts.

I never realized just how much we show on our faces until I saw a face with nothing on it at all.

I flinch so badly that only the tightening of Max’s grip keeps me from falling flat on my ass. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs and gently pulls me away.

 I don’t look back. I can’t. It doesn’t matter. Now that I’ve brushed up against that emptiness, that static _nothing_ , I can still feel it. Like the Giant Fucking Hole in the sky. Except there’s shit on the other side of _that_. I know. I’ve been there. It ain’t pretty and it’s all kinda… smushy and not solid but it’s _there_.

“W-w-what…?” I manage to ask and _shit,_ I can’t even get words out. I can’t…

“Galen is a Tranquil,” Max explains once he’s managed to get me further away. His hands are gentle now, one still wrapped up with my own and the other drawing soothing lines up and down my arm. “The Rite of Tranquility is used by Templars to control or punish mages that they deem too dangerous. There are even mages who, terrified of their own bloody powers, voluntarily submit themselves to it. During it they are branded on the forehead with lyrium and cut off from the Fade. Do you understand?”

I shake. I nod.  I… something. There is something important about mages and the Fade. Fuck, what…

“A mage is, inherently, a mage because of the connection they share with the Fade. Cut that connection and they no longer possess magic. They also no longer possess the ability to feel emotions. Not a single bloody thing.”

“Oh, god,” I whisper as his words sink in and fill in the spaces around my barely formed opinion of Galen. “They fucking cut out their souls.”

Max tenses, fingers tightening. “Yeah. They did, didn’t they?” and he sounds so lost, so sad that I step forward and don’t stop until I’ve rested my head on his chest, his heart _thump-thumping_ beneath my ear and wrapped my arms around his waist. “Evie – my sister – we were inseparable when we were little. She was a couple years older than me and more of a mother than a sister. She discovered she was a mage when she called up a barrier and kept a horse from kicking my head in when I was nine,” he whispers into my hair and his grip is clinging, gripping instead of soothing, glue instead of feathers. “Father had her locked in her room and the Templars took her away before dinner finished cooking.”

Oh, god.

I can see it. Literally? Figuratively? I’m not even sure anymore.  But I can see it. A little boy, all gangly limbs and child-soft face beneath a shock of silky black hair, sobbing against the restraint of bigger hands, stronger hands, as a pale faced little girl is all but dragged down the drive.

There’s an awful, aching familiarity to it that makes something in my chest hurt that hasn’t hurt since Mama B scooped me out of the system and refused to let me go.

I blink…

…and I put it away. The familiar rise of panic and the _dontleavewhymecan’tIstayjustletmego_ folding back down into a little, tiny box. It’s still there, like static electricity bubbling around my heart and tracing down to my gut but I can’t indulge, can’t fall apart. I _can’t_.

Not now. Not yet. Not when Max needs me.

“…when I was older I managed to re-establish contact with her, once I figured out which Templars I needed to bribe to get letters in to her. I even managed to sneak in to see her a few times,” Max continues as if I hadn’t just been half a second away from nuclear detonation beneath the curve of his chin. “When the Circle at Ostwick fell I went straight there.  I found her dead in the bloody dungeons with that bloody _brand on her head_. It had been less than three weeks since her last letter.”

Jesus.

Just.

_Fuck_.

He says the words and they’re not calm, not detached, but he’s not drowning in them either. No, there’s something hotter there, something brighter and sharper and more _searing_ than the dark, endless depths of oblivion. He’s shaking though. He’s fucking shaking like he’s about to fly apart, like the only thing holding him together is the grip of my arms around his middle and the clench of his fingers in my clothes. He’s shaking and his heart his pounding, galloping away beneath my ear until part of me is terrified that it’s about to explode.  I can feel the curl of his lips, the twist of the snarl against the top of my head: a wounded predator baring its teeth.

He’s bent and battered, shattered but not _broken_ and angry. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, he is _so fucking angry_.

And what do I say? What _can_ I say to a man who has found his sister – his _mother_ , where it counts – not just dead but with her soul dug out of her with hot pokers and dull spoons? Cause, honey, if they’re cutting off people’s souls they’re clearly past the point where they give a shit if it hurts or not. And it hurts. It has to, I imagine. Losing your soul has to _hurt_. Hurt and then… nothing.

Oh, god.

I think I’m going to be sick.

“…it’s not rational, I know. I _know_ that Cullen Rutherford didn’t make my sister a Tranquil. He wasn’t even in Ostwick. Fuck, at that point, he’d already left _Kirkwall_ and come south. But he… he’s the _Knight Captain of Kirkwall_. He and Meredith are the faces and forces that drove the movement for absolute control. They’re the ones that heaped a policy of zero tolerance on already beaten down shoulders.  And I can’t… I can’t…” he shakes his head and a growl rumbles around inside of his chest. “I _need_ you, Avery. I need you beside me. I need… I need there to be someone that I can save,” his voice is desperate now, wet and ragged. “I need to be able to protect someone, because I couldn’t protect Evie. I _couldn’t…_ ”

I tighten my grip around his middle, clutching at him until my fingers feel like they’re about to break and fall off from the sheer force of it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper over and over into his chest. “I’m sorry about your sister. I’m sorry…”

Max grunts, flinching like I’ve punched all the air out of his gut. “Not your fault, sweetheart.”

I just shake my head, unable to get my lips to form the words to explain the feelings lying heavy in my chest.

“I need you, Avery,” he repeats into my hair. “Please come with me.”

And now I’m flinching and breathing like I’ve just taken a blow to the gut. Jesus. I forget, I think, because he’s always been on my side and even though it’s stupid the idea of not _trusting_ him, of not standing here with my arms wrapped around him and holding him like he’s the only other person in goddamn universe is unbearable. I forget that he’s dangerous, that he’s a killer.

He’s John Wick and the Templars have just killed his fucking dog.

… and his wife, because I feel a bit shit for comparing his dead, soulless sister to a dog.

I think of Haven: of my nice warm kitchen that has become my own personal haven, of the little house with its surprisingly soft bed, of the soaring ceilings and built in oppression, of snow covered streets and an ice covered lake. I think of the people here, a warm hum that keeps beating like a pulse in this frozen world. I think of Leliana, who is not letting herself feel anything and god knows that’s going to bite her in the ass at an inopportune time. I think of Cassandra, of the sad little rage monster that exists in the empty hole inside her chest. I think of Josephine, brightly fluttering bird that she is, who someone how manages to be a complete badass and a soft and gooey bundle of emotions all at the same time. I think of Varric, who is hiding something, who is watching, who is – mostly – keeping on better than anyone else. I think of Cullen, of the tired, exhausted man slumped beneath the tide that has overwhelmed him and dragged him to the bottom of the sea. I think of Solas, of the man that I have spoken to more in dreams than anywhere else, of the man who tells me _be careful_ and _run_ and _you are something else entirely._

I think of wants. Of _needs_.

I think of Max. He’s the calm at the center of the storm, he’s the eye of the hurricane but not because he’s got his shit together, oh no. He’s calm because he brings chaos. He’s steady because he’s tearing the world up and ripping it apart as he passes through. He’s not the relief from the storm, he’s its goddamn epicenter.

And he’s all alone there, surrounded by the wind and the rain and the destruction.

All alone with nothing to ground him, nothing to keep his own turbulence from tearing him into itty bitty pieces.

_I need you, Avery._

“I swear to god if you get me killed I will haunt your ass,” I promise, tipping back so that I can actually look at his face. “I’m serious here, darling, I have like zero interest in dying. Zip. None. Nada.”

The smile on his face is so fucking beautiful that it hurts.

“Thank you,” he breathes and when he tips my head up and slots his lips against mine it feels like coming home.

It’s also like throwing a match into the fucking gas tank.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, input time! The next chapter will finish up the initial Haven/Arrive in Thedas arc and I'm trying to map out the next bit so that I'm not writing completely blind. Upcoming we've got:
> 
> * Initial Hinterlands/the Crossroads - this will include clearing out the rogue Templars and Mages and a visit to the horse master. _Anything else you want to see?_ It'll be a while before Avery visits again.  
>  * Solas and Avery finally get to finish their conversation  
> * Varric and Avery write porn  
> * Avery begins the task of taming the little rage monster that is Cassandra under some awkward circumstances  
> * Val Royeaux   
> * Collecting the rest of the gang. _Yes or no on recruiting Vivienne?_ Because on one hand she's a badass with important political connections that would be beneficial to the Inquisition. On the other, I think Max might listen to exactly 5 minutes of her "loyal mages" spiel before he snaps and murders her with her headwear.
> 
> Thoughts? Opinions? Requests? Pairings? Hit me.


	16. Laid Bare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we [finally] are, breaking the smut barrier. This chapter is NSFW.
> 
> Also, possible TW: Max makes use of c word for female genitalia. I've got _Opinions_ on the whole subject of that word as an insult/something derogatory but I know it bothers a lot of people and can be very triggering for some. So, be aware that it's in this chapter (and while I could/can write quite about why I chose to use it this is definitely one of those things that I can 100,000% edit out so give me a shout out if it's an issue!)

Despite the fact that Max has yet to fuck me through the mattress – but he’s thus far proven a man of his word so I’m pretty damn sure that’s still a _when_ and not an _if_ – he’s kissed me a lot over the past week. He’s a tactile creature who likes to hold my hand when we walk together, who likes to pull me into his lap or wrap an arm around my shoulders when I sit next to him. He likes to curl around me at night with his lips pressed to the back of my neck, arm thrown around my waist, and legs tangled in mine. He kisses me as easily as he touches: little kisses feathered across palms and knuckles, fleeting kisses pressed to forehead and cheek, soft kisses laid against my mouth, gentle, like breathing.

This kiss is not like those kisses. This is not like the kiss at the temple, either.

Oh, dear sweet flying purple people eater, it is _nothing_ like the kiss at the Temple.

It’s not soft but it’s sweet. It’s not gentle but it’s kind. It’s not teasing but it’s a promise. It’s a brand of possession, a rush of desperation. It’s a match thrown on a pile of dry, old brush with ten gallons of gasoline dumped over it. 

He kisses me and it’s the final straw that sends a week of easy sexual tension up in flames.

I’ve never been very patient.

Max groans and his tongue is hot against my lips and then I’m groaning, whimpering as he licks into my mouth. The angle is harsh, the tendons in my neck screaming from being forced back so much and he can’t be comfortable, hunched over me like that but I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care... Instead, I just dig my fingers into whatever I can grab, whatever bit of his hardened leather coat that I can get my hands on. And then his hands are on my waist, smoothing down over my hips and grabbing at my ass, pulling me up the line of his body until my head is even with his own, until I can thread my fingers in the silk of his hair and pull his head closer, press my lips harder as I chase his tongue back into his mouth.

God, so good. So fucking, fucking good. Max tastes like heat, like the still of summer midday, when everything is so hot that the leaves on the trees droop and even the insects have fallen silent. He tastes like sunlight and metal and dust and it’s so good that I’ve my legs wrapped around his waist and am making enough noises for a bad porno.

Which he approves of, if the grip on my ass as anything to go by.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Max breathes against my mouth and I make a high, needy sort of noise in the back of my throat as he pulls away because _no_ , no that is not an acceptable course of action. “Fuck, sweetheart, listen to you, you’re gorgeous _…”_

“Max…” I whine, chasing his lips, grinding into him as he shudders beneath the drag of my nails against his skull. I catch him, taste him, peppering his mouth with kisses.

“We… _shit_ …” I drag my teeth across the line of his jaw and he tilts his head to accommodate me. Fuck, yes. His skin, god, I need to feel his skin. I need it beneath my hands, need to catch it between my teeth.

“Yes,” Max growls instantly. Apparently that last bit had been out loud. “Fuck yes, sweetheart. I want you to mark me up. Take that feisty little mouth of yours and bloody _own_ me.”

Oh, fuck me with a spoon.

Yes. Yes. I can definitely do that.

“H-home,” I manage to get out because, damn, we need to get somewhere, anywhere, that’s not freezing. I’m about two fucking seconds away from tearing off my own clothes. The air is cold, so fucking cold, against the skin of my face but I’m so hot. I’ve got liquid fire curling through my blood and pooling between my legs until I can feel it dripping out of me.

“Fuck, yes.”

Max doesn’t put me down. Instead , he settles me a little higher and pulls my legs tighter around his waist. He’s still got one hand on my ass but the other he buries in the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging until the burn of it makes me gasp. So good. Someone, somewhere close by, lets out a whistle.  I blink, eyelids heavy, to bring his face into focus. He’s staring at me, the corner of his lips turned up in a smug little smirk, and the black of eyes blown so wide that his irises are nothing more than a thin ring of dirty ice caught between the black and the white.

I swallow.

“Leliana’s going to kill us.”

Max’s smirk broadens and he tugs on my hair again and leans forward to whisper against the exposed line of my throat, “I am not afraid of the Nightingale, sweetheart.”

“That seems s-stupid,” I mutter back, words breaking as he catches a particularly sensitive spot just under the curve of my jaw. He smiles against my skin.

“Not really. She’s good with a knife but she favors a bow. If she can keep me at a distance I’d be at a disadvantage but once I got close enough it’d all be over.” Fucker doesn’t even sound like he’s boasting. It’s just another statement of fact and _fuck_ , but that should not be as hot as it is. But it _is_ and all I can suddenly remember is the way he moved the day we met. He’d been one of the most graceful things I’d ever had the privilege to witness. Smooth, and powerful, and so fucking fast. “We’d probably destroy a couple of buildings in the process but unless I had some phenomenally shitty luck I could take her,” Max reassures, correctly reading the skepticism on my face.

He’s moving now. Has been for a while, I think. He moves like water, flowing his way around everything in his path, still holding me tight to him, his fingers still tugging at my hair and his lips ghosting across my skin. Half the village is out in the streets and I can hear the whispers that follow us.

Well, this is one way to confirm the village gossip. Go team.

“I’d pay to see that fight,” I whisper, catching his mouth. “It’d be like Hulk versus Thor with less super powers. Still fuckin’ hot though. Like sizzlin’.”

Max laughs quietly and ignores someone shouting out _Your Worship!_ As he passes. “I didn’t understand most of that,” he tells me.

I smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll explain. Someday. _Later_.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Later sounds real good sweetheart. I’ve got better plans for right now.”

By the time we stumble through the door of our little house I’m pretty sure we’ve shocked/semi-flashed at least half of Haven. Leliana is certainly going to try and kill us. Josephine will probably _actually_ kill us and I… I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t bring myself to care about anything except taking all these goddamn clothes _off_.

“Max,” I growl as fumble with the buckles that hold his coat closed. “ _Max_ ,” I repeat desperately, shoving at it until it falls off his shoulders.

Max isn’t doing much better. His hands dance between our torsos. One moment he’s helping my fumbling fingers undo the buckles and ties that hold his armor-coat together and the next he’s maneuvering my arms out of my own coat and yanking at the laces that hold the top of my tunic shut with his teeth.

“I got you, sweetheart. I got you,” he chants against my skin. With the laces loosened the neckline of the tunic falls over the edge of my shoulder and it’s almost nothing for him to pull it down and make me shiver as the cool drafts of air hit sensitive skin. “Fuck, just look at you…” he draws a thumb over the pebbled surface of my nipple and I hiss at the lightning that shoots across my skin to join the inferno blazing low in my belly. “You have no idea how much I’ve dreamed about these tits,” he growls and I remember that very first day, that very first moment when he’d called me a desire demon – yuck- and leveled a playful stare at my chest.

“I… might…” I manage to get out as he pinches and plucks and plays me like a goddamn harp. “You’re not…exactly… _oh god…_ subtle.”

Max’s laugh is low and dark. “Oh, sweetheart, who said anything about _subtle_?” He’s got an arm under my thigh now, leveraging me higher and away from him as he tears at his shirt with his other hand. And yes, thank you Jesus, I can get on board with that. I can help with _that_. My hands are shaking but they do their job and it only takes a second before his shirt is going… somewhere. It’s not important.

I stare at the miles of golden skin suddenly laid bare to my eyes and, yeah, _it’s really not important_.

I’m pretty sure my entire body breaks out some fantastical rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen Max without a shirt - in fact, I’m about five hundred percent certain that there’s not a single modest bone in the man’s body - and with excellent fucking reason because _dayum  son_ – but this is the first time that it’s all been laid bare for _me_.

“Oh, yes please,” I mutter and Max’s laugh turns into a strangled groan as I tighten my legs around his waist and trail lips across the burn scar splashed over his shoulder before catching a bit of skin between my teeth and worrying it like a dog with a bone.

“Fuck, Avery, like that…”

I growl around the flesh clenched between my teeth and _suck_.

 There’s a bruise already blooming red and purple across the elegant jut of his collarbone when I finally pull away.

It’s easy to get lost after that, lost in the heat of his skin beneath teeth and touch and fingertips, in the sparse curl of hairs trailing down in chest, in the lines and textures of different scars. It’s easy to place my mark on his flesh, turning the lines of his throat and upper chest into a rainbow of small bruises. His breath is heavy in my ear, across my collarbone, nestled in the small valley between my breasts as he makes marks of his own. His fingers are tight and sure, kneading and pinching and plucking until entire body feels swollen. Like I’ve spent my entire life shoved into a skin too small and just never noticed until Max got his hands on me.

And, _Jesus fucking Christ_ , those _hands_.

“Bed,” I order, gasping as his teeth close over the nipple he’s bared to the room. He’s got one hand halfway down the front of my pants and he’s so damn close to touching me that I’m whining like an animal in the back of my throat and thrashing in an effort to get closer.  “It’s too damn drafty to…uhh… fuck me against the wall.”

He laughs but doesn’t disagree.

We stumble our way across the room and fall onto the bed in a disordered tangle of limbs, hands pulling at clothing and dragging over skin as its revealed.

The sight of Max kneeling at the edge of the bed is enough to make me twist restlessly, searching for something – _anything!_ – as the sight of all that muscled, olive skin punches all the air out of my lungs in a completely desperate keen.

Max smiles, slow and lazy, a predator who knows that he has his prey trapped. “Maker, sweetheart, you’re gorgeous,” he breathes, his hand gentle on my ankle. I may make some garbled noise of agreement. Or protest. My brain isn’t exactly functioning as it’s supposed to, far too distracted with the sight of a very sexy man parting my legs and slinking up between them in a sinuous crawl.

I blush.

Max laughs.

And then his mouth is on mine again and really, after that, everything is just a cascade of sensation.

I whimper into his mouth and fist my fingers in his hair and gasp as he trails kisses down my neck. I pant as he worships at my breasts, rolling them in his hands and drawing them into his mouth. The suction is achingly perfect, the heat of his mouth and the stinging nip of his teeth soothed away by the brush of his tongue.  It’s like lightning, like fire. It’s static electricity racing across my skin and a burning in my blood that makes me gasp and roll beneath the weight of his body settling over mine.

“This okay?” he asks from somewhere around my navel and I blink, hazily trying to gather my thoughts through the fog of desire.

“If it wasn’t, I’d kill you,” I murmur and he barks out a laugh against the flesh of my abdomen.

“You could certainly _try_ ,” he laughs, but the smirk on his face is softer now and the deepness of his voice has smoothed out into something rich and rumbling.

“Oh god,” I whimper as his mouth trails lower and his hands curl over my hips.

“Sure, but you can call me Max.”

I want to hit him.

Instead, I clutch at the quilt so hard I think I might tear it as he runs his tongue from pussy to clit, curling it a little at the end to twist it around the throbbing button of flesh and he growls. Fucking. Growls.

Jesus.

So hot.

Max laughs again and I flush. Apparently my brain to mouth filter has disengaged again.

Oops?

Or not oops, because the vibrations from his laugh feel really, _really_ good.

Gently, Max presses kisses to the inside of each of my thighs. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”

 _I need you, Avery_.

I lean up just enough to run my fingers through his hair and down the side of his face. “Yeah,” I breathe, just in case he needs to hear it.

Max smiles.

That smile is going to be the death of me, I know it. Well, provided my own mouth doesn’t get me murdered first.

“ _Fuck_.”

Max goes down on me like man that’s been starved, fingers ghosting along my thighs and guiding them up over his shoulders. His thumbs pull at my folds so that he can shove his face deeper. Fuck, but I’m not sure how he’s breathing but it’s good. God, it’s so good. I twist and I whimper and I tighten my legs as the fire turns into tension, a string being wound tighter and tighter until I’m taunt and bowed against the bed, gasping out his name and enough profanities to make a sailor blush.

The slide of his finger, the audible _squelch_ of it pushing into the warmth of my body is enough to make me snap and I come with scream, my entire body jerking with the waves crashing over me. My whole system is lit and god, the noises I can hear coming out of my mouth… And just as things start to shift from _good, good, oh fucking god_ to _just a little too much_ Max raises his head and stares up the line of my body with lust blackened eyes and a face slick and shining with a coat of my juices drying against his skin.

“Again,” he growls.

It’s not a suggestion.

One finger becomes two and he’s fucking ruthless in using them. I groan, head thrashing against the bedding as he twists them, the calluses on his fingers dragging against fluttering, silken muscles as he pumps them in and out of my body. Fuck, I’m so wet that I can _hear_ it, even above all the other noises. Between my legs Max growls as he bends back over my clit.

“ _Holy shit,_ you’re going to kill me,” I babble, because it’s been for-fucking-ever since I got properly laid and this is almost too much. This isn’t an oasis in the desert. It’s forty days and forty nights of goddamn rain and Noah’s already closing up his ark. “You’re going to, oh _fuck…_!” all of the air punches out of me as his fingers hit something just right.

I can feel him smirk against my folds. Smug fucker.

And then I’m lost, incapable of doing anything but let out breathy, broken grunts with each drive of his fingers, each one building me up for a second orgasm faster than I’m usually capable of. This isn’t a winding of tension, a steady climb up to the peak. This is inevitable. This is an avalanche rolling down a mountainside, every plunge of his hand and every flick of his tongue building the pressure inside of my skin until I simply explode, messily, all over his hand.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re gorgeous. Look at that pretty little cunt of yours, so red and dripping. Need you. _Need you_ …”

I blink.

Max is a mess, skin flushed and chest heaving. He’s got one hand wrapped around his cock, the plump head of it almost purple against the frame of his fingers, pre cum weeping from the tip in shimmering beads that I ache to touch, to taste, to lick away with my tongue. He groans – _growls_ – and his fingers tighten and stroke down his length. “Maker, _look at you_ ,” he repeats hoarsely and I smile, well aware that it’s not a kind, pretty thing. No, it’s demanding, full of teeth and blunt in its desires.

“Fuck me,” I whisper and his gaze snaps up to mine. He’s teetering on the edge, impeccable control fraying like cheap rope, already half feral and desperate. “Max, _fuck me_.”

He’s not gentle, but he’s not rough. Persistent. He’s persistent, pressing his way into my body with a sob of relief as he fights against swollen and contracting muscles to bury himself. I groan, arching against him as he presses down, one leg still slung over his shoulder as he nearly bends me in half, the other slipping down to wrap around him, tightening to pull him even closer.

“Bloody void, you’re so tight. You’re going to squeeze my cock off and I’m not going to bloody care. Shit, look at you. Look at you taking me so well…” the dark rasp of his words is half lost beneath the sensation of him pulling almost all the way out leaving me desperately empty and clenching for a miserable second before he drives back in with enough force to push me up the bed. It takes us a minute or two to find our rhythm, to coordinate the ways our bodies dance, but eventually I’m rocking up into him as he drives into me with sharp snaps of his hips that leave him brushing up against my cervix. The pleasure-pain of it is exquisite and I know I’m gone. I’m babbling like an idiot beneath him, clinging to his forearms so harshly I can feel my nails digging into his skin, desperately trying to ground myself as he does his level best to crawl up inside my body and stay there. To fill in the weird little empty spaces that memories and Galen’s presence called to the surface.

If he could, I’d let him. I’d let him in a fucking heartbeat and that, more than anything, has me shoving back against him, urging him _deeper, harder_ , and _fuck, fuck, right there_ when he reaches between us and rolls my clit between his fingers, so over sensitized that it _hurtsburnsstingsdontyoudarestop_ even as it makes my entire body lock around him like a fucking vice and I howl because there’s not anything left that I can do.

Max is frantic, desperate. The contractions of my own orgasm drives the last of his control from him and he simply _takes – Jesus,_ I’m going to feel that tomorrow – and takes and takes until he finds his release with a broken cry that sounds suspiciously like my name. His body is slick and heavy as he all but collapses across my front and I shift just enough that I can loop both legs around his hips as he presses his face into the curve of my neck.

For a moment we just lie there.

It’s quiet and solid and warm. It’s peaceful and that almost makes it more enjoyable than the – truly exceptional, because holy fuck I scored on the fake-but-not-fake lover front – sex.

“I think you broke me,” I observe after my heart stops trying to launch itself out of my chest and the chuff of laughter against my skin is still a little broken, still a little more hysteria than happy endorphin high. “I got you,” I add, repeating his words from earlier as I run a still shaking hand through his hair. “I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Except into an active war zone, apparently.

Max exhales roughly and for several minutes we stay together, content to lie skin to skin in this little bubble of ours where the most pressing problem is the mess leaking out onto my thighs. Or the draft I’m beginning to feel curling against my skin. Inch by inch Max slowly gives in to the sort of boneless relaxation one might expect in this sort of situation.

I treat it like the gift it is and continue to run my fingers in slow, gentle motions through the strands of his hair.

Fuck dreaming, if this isn’t real I’m in a straight jacket and a padded room somewhere.

And I’m not sure if I care.

This is probably the most insane thing I’ve ever done and I’ve done no small amount of crazy ass shit.

“Shit,” I mutter as that thought sinks in. “I’m going into an active war zone. I don’t even have any protective gear!” I’m dead. So dead. Deader than dead. And probably with less grace than a drunken giraffe.

Max grunts as he manages to roll off of me and promptly tugs me up against his chest and curls around me like some sort of big cat. “Of course you have armor,” Max replies and I blink.

“No I don’t. I’m pretty sure I’d remember it if I did.”

“What do you think we were just checking on?” Max asks, raising an eyebrow. “I put in a rush order with Harritt the day after I woke up.”

I blink again. “What?”

“It’s nothing fancy but I doubt you’ve got the body strength for chainmail. It won’t stand up to direct blows from a broadsword or a crossbow bolt but it should serve you well otherwise.” He presses his lips to the top of my head. “I told you, Avery –you will not die. I won’t let you.”

Calm, irrefutable.

The sun rises in the east. Fire is hot. Max is an absolute _beast_ in bed. _You will not die_.

_Facts._

 

* * *

 

I can’t sleep.

Bundled against the special biting cold that is the predawn cold, I carefully shut the door to the house behind me, nod to the soldier standing guard at the door – he nods back and promptly turns at least nine different shades of red, which tells me all sorts of unfortunate things about how loud we’d been yesterday afternoon and again last night – and set off down the street. Max is still back in our bed, cocooned in blankets that still smell rather enticingly of sex, sleeping and warm.

Lucky bastard.

In an ideal world I’d be safe and snug in there with him. In an ideal world I’d be waking him with a blow job in an hour or so. But instead of looking forward to delightful carnal activity I’m carefully picking my way across the frozen deathtraps that Haven likes to call roads.

Sigh. I miss giving blowjobs. I make a note. How the fuck have we gone two rounds of sex without me getting my mouth on his dick?

I can’t sleep, not anymore. Insomnia came knocking like the bitch that she is and rather than toss and turn and deprive Max of another hour or two of sleep I figure I’ll make good use of the time and head to the kitchen.

If nothing else I need to come up with some sort of game plan for while I’m gone. Leliana had informed me that she has an associate already on her way to Haven to help with the task of running the _Singing Maiden_ – Fiona? I’m pretty sure her name is Fiona. I’d made a Shrek joke - but I’d be an ungrateful ass if I just up and left.

Besides, associate or no associate, that’s my fucking kitchen and I’m going to want it back.

‘Cause I’m not going to die.

“…Avery?”

I freeze halfway up the path leading to the kitchen’s back door and turn back towards the street. “Cullen?” I ask, squinting through the moonlight to the shape of the man standing on the street. It’s definitely him. Forget recognizing his voice there’s no one else in Haven with quite that height or shoulder width. Plus, even though we’re not touching, I can feel the black tide lapping at my toes. “What the hell are you doing up?”

“I…uh, I could ask you the same thing,” he responds a little wryly, ice crunching beneath his boots as he moves closer.

“Insomnia. Got a bit restless. Figured if I was going to be awake I might as well make myself useful,” I dismiss with a shrug and a shiver. “But I slept well until then. Unlike you,” I eye the other man pointedly. “I’m pretty sure you haven’t slept yet tonight, have you?”

Cullen’s wince is answer enough.

For a second I think I might get an excuse, an explanation but then he rubs at the back of his neck and says, “I have something for you,” instead.

I blink in surprise. “You do?” He nods and even in the moonlight I can see the bit of pink staining his cheeks. It’s kind of adorable. “Alright. Uh, want to come in for some tea?”

Cullen looks more than a little stunned at the offer but he follows me into the kitchen anyway.  It takes several suggestions and a final, exasperated, “Just sit down, you stubborn ass!” before he sits at the table but he gets there eventually, though I’m amused to note that he’s very deliberate about _not_ taking Max’s spot.  I move around the room stirring up the fire, lighting lamps, and filling a kettle with water while he watches quietly, though I can see the faint trembling of his hands as they rest on the tabletop.

I make some toast too.

“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly as I set tea – peppermint, because I don’t really need the black tide to tell me that he’s nauseated again. He’s got that pinched look to his face – and lightly buttered toast in front of him.

“No problem. Let me know if you want anything else,” I tell him and slide into the seat across from him with my own tea and toast. I sip and nibble toast in silence, content to watch him over the rim of my mug as he takes careful bites of his own food and slow, settling swallows of his tea. He looks at me a few times, even opens his mouth once before promptly turning pink – _so fucking adorable_ – and shoving his slice of toast awkwardly into his mouth while he stares at the table. He’s nervous… and embarrassed? I can’t blame him for the former because objectively I get that Max is likely more than a little terrifying. No idea what the cause is for the latter.

Well. That’s not quite true.

Max and I did make a bit of a scene on our way home yesterday afternoon.

“So?” I finally ask, waiting until after he’s eaten his toast because, well, he’s _eating_. I don’t want to scare him off and risk him stopping. I’m pretty sure his blood sugar can’t handle that. “You said you had something for me?”

Cullen promptly turns red but he nods his head and reaches into what must be a pocket in his fur lined coat, removing a simple linen bag a little larger than my hand. “I thought… ah… I mean,” he gets redder but he hands me the bag anyway. “You are not from around here and I’m not sure how things work where you are from but, um…”

Curious, I open the bag. Inside is a bunch of dried plant bits, none of which I can recognize, strictly, but it smells good. Sort of sweet and astringent at the same time. And kind of licorice-y. “…Tea?” I hazard a guess, because I think it’s got to be either that or potpourri and tea makes a great deal more sense. I think.

He nods. “Blood tea,” he informs me, eyes fixed firmly on the bag in my hands. “Drink a cup twice a day and it will ensure that you, um, bleed.”

I raise an eyebrow. “…Bleed?”

“Rather than carry a child.”

I stare. Cullen blushes. Cullen blushes some more.

“Holy shit, you’re giving me birth control,” I finally manage to get out, still with the staring. “Just. Wow. That’s…thanks. No, seriously,” I tell him when he presses his lips together and flinches, just a little. “ _Thank you_. I was going to ask Max about it tomorrow – er, today…”

“I am sure Trevelyan would have brought it up eventually. Or Leliana,” Cullen acknowledges. “I just… I am used to thinking about such things.”

“Sex?” I tease.

He blushes some more. “The prevention of pregnancy,” he corrects. “Mages were not…” He gives his head a little shake and there’s something in his voice that makes me reach out and cover his hand with my own, squeezing it gently. He starts at the touch but doesn’t jerk his hand away so I leave mine where it is, gently rubbing at his knuckles with my thumb.

“Thank you,” I repeat sincerely and I catch his gaze, staring straight into eyes of liquid gold so that he can see the depth of my sincerity. “I like kids – love ‘em, actually. Would love a handful of them eventually but on a strange world, a week into a fake-but-not relationship is probably not the right time to hop on that ride.”

Despite the color still staining his cheeks, Cullen’s lips twitch up in a smile. “No,” he agrees with a chuckle, “it’s probably not.”

I give his hand one more squeeze. “Go get some rest,” I urge after we’ve sat a few moments in silence. “You’ve still got a couple hours before the sun rises and I’m sure everything will go more smoothly if the Inquisition’s Commander isn’t a complete zombie.”

“I don’t…” I glare pointedly and he sighs. “I’ll try.”

I nod. “I’ll take it.”

I do wrap up a couple of slices of bread and an apple in a square of linen and press it into his hands. Maybe he’ll actually eat it.

After he’s gone I move around the kitchen slowly, lost in thought as I make up another pot of tea. Thedas, I decide, is a very strange place. Magic. Mages. Demons. An assassin who only wants someone to save. A monster who wants to redeem himself.

_You are something else entirely._

“I’m not the only one,” I observe out loud and begin pulling out the ingredients for bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and support are the wind beneath my wings. I love you and I love sharing these characters with you.
> 
> Edited:  
> Got rid of Max's use of "baby girl" as an alternative term of endearment. Initially, I had vague and half formed plot points/conversations centering around it but they are absolutely not important at all and I've gotten enough "eh"s over the matter that I'm happy to bow to the will of the people and ax it ;)


	17. The League of Assholes

For some reason, in my head, I had become convinced that Haven – and the Haven adjacent remains of the Temple of something something – was the worst of it. Probably because I’m a millennial from a first world country and my only experience with war were news articles and 9-11, though that barely counts because I’d been, like, ten or something. Jesus, outside of a few heavy handed foster parents and the bastard that had tried to feel me up on the subway once I don’t even have experience with violence.

Clearly.

Because I am so, _so_ fucking _wrong_.

The attack at Haven, the whole Conclave going _boom_ , it had been awful. Terrible. A tragedy. I’m going to remember the melted corpses and the demon’s laugh until the day I die, but in the end it is just one event. A flash. A bang. Fireworks. Neon Lights. Whatever. But the demons are gone, the Giant Fucking Hole in the sky is momentarily patched, we are relatively safe behind solid walls with fires to warm us and food to fill our bellies, and even though tensions are running high – especially between the powers that be – no one is strung up, broken, or bleeding out in the streets.

Which is more than I can say for Outside-of-Haven.

Intellectually I knew, knew that we were traveling into an active war zone. _I fucking knew it_. I’d freaked out a little, more than once, over it because really it just seems like a completely stupid thing to do. And I’m trying to not do stupid so much. Mainly because I want to live. But there’s miles and miles of difference between knowing that I’m in the middle of a war and _knowing_ that I’m in a middle of a war.

The first time we pass an overturned cart, its sides broken and contents scattered like macabre flower petals over mauled and bloated corpses, I barely make it to the opposite side of the road before my stomach starts heaving. Chunks of bread and half-digested apple splash across the ground, bile burning my throat and tongue as I try to forget the corpses with their skirts shoved up to their waist and the wounds on their throats gaping like a second mouth just below their chins.

Max’s hands are gentle as pulls my hair away from my face. “I hate you,” I whisper, bracing myself against my knees. My hands are shaking and I can’t make them stop. “I fucking hate you.”

“I know,” Max replies as he runs a hand up and down the line of my spine.  “Here. Rinse and spit.” I take the proffered canteen and raise it to my lips. The water itself is faintly slimy and makes my mouth taste like ass.

“Not helping,” I mutter and glare at the bruised elfroot leaves I can see clinging to the glass.

“It will,” he promises and I believe him. Shit.

Sighing, I take another sip and this one I swallow.

It still tastes like ass but when it hits my stomach it’s like that moment when you finally get to spread a big ol’ handful of aloe vera on a brick red sunburn.

“But it’s so disgusting,” I whine, baffled, and fix the canteen with a disbelieving look. I don’t understand how something so utterly revolting is like the hand of god soothing away my nausea. It makes no sense. Disgusting things should make it worse not…better. It makes no sense and I’m being fucking ridiculous but I need it to make sense. I need _something_ to make sense. Because this, that…

“And thus you ask yourself something that we’ve been asking for centuries. But it works, so don’t knock it,” Max drawls and the rumble of his voice against my back yanks my thoughts out of the beginnings of a totally justified spiral of hysteria.

_Not now,_ I tell myself. _Later_.

Always putting it off to later. That’s going to bite me in the ass someday. Probably at the worst possible moment.

“I’m sorry,” Max’s voice is soft against my hair, his lips brushing against the top of my ear as he cradles me against his chest. I let him. For a moment I go limp and I let him hold me up, let my head loll against the leather covered planes of his chest as I try to not think of the grisly scene behind us. “It’s going to get worse.”

I sigh. “I know.” And I do. I logically know that the bodies and the broken cart are just the beginning, that they’re next to nothing. Logically, I know I’m walking into something a great deal more horrible.

But, once again, there’s that difference between knowing and _knowing_ and the latter ain’t going to hit me until I’m face to face with it. Fabulous.

Max kisses the side of my head and makes me take another drink of his super special plant water.

“C’mon Smalls,” Varric loops his arm around my shoulders almost as soon as Max lets go, steering me away.

“ _Smalls_? Really?”

Varric winces. “Not my best work,” he confesses, “but you have to admit that you’re not really any taller than I am – and I’m a _dwarf_.”

I grasp at the avoidance-as-a-coping-mechanism olive branch and mutter, “I prefer Sugar to Smalls.”

“Eh,” the dwarf shrugs. “Sugar’s not a bad nickname…”

“…but?”

“It’s too sweet.”

“Varric… are you trying to tell me that I’m not a sweet person? Because that’s hurtful. It hurts me in my heart.” I bat my eyelashes at him and turn my lips down in an exaggerated frown.

He chokes on a bit of laughter, arm tightening around me until I’ve all but got my cheek pressed to his, stubble scraping against my skin. He smells of wood smoke and those little cigarettes that he lights up - something faintly reminiscent of tobacco but greener, that sweet rush of fresh cut grass, with notes of a clove like warmth – and the ever present acrid notes of paper and ink. I inhale sharply, drawing the scent of him into my lungs and holding it there, letting it erase the fetid sourness of death.

“No, you’re sweet but not sugar sweet,” Varric explains. “You’re not cakes and cookies sweet. You’re more sweet and spicy. You’re… you’re an expensive mulled wine. You’re hot and sweet, almost too sweet, but deep and lingering and with a kick that’ll grab you by the back of your throat and burn all the way down.”

I stop in the middle of the road and turn to look at him. “… that may be one of the nicest fucking things someone has ever said about me,” I finally tell him, blinking rapidly. Also probably one of the strangest. He squeezes shoulder.

“It’s a good description. I’m going to use it in my book.”

“You’re not writing a book about me,” I reply instantly. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the edge of the cart, flames licking at the broken wood as Solas stands in silent witness.

Varric snorts and pulls me back around, “Watch me, _Smalls_.”

Right. Avoidance. It only works if I _avoid_.

So I do. I lean against Varric’s shoulder and try to tell him just how ridiculous of a subject I would make for a book and I don’t look back.

 

* * *

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, just kill me,” I mutter as I collapse on the ground next to Varric’s feet.  “I’m not meant for this. Fuck, I am so out of shape it isn’t funny.” I flop onto my back and inhale sharply, chest heaving as I fling an arm over my face to block out the sunlight creeping through the canopy of leaves overhead and let out another whine. I’m pretty sure every muscle in my body is on fire. I can’t feel my damn feet. Oh, god, I’m not going to be able to move. I need a hot tub. And a masseuse. And a Costco sized bottle of ibuprofen. And a big tube of that magical muscle rub that smells like peppermint and makes everything all tingly.

“Trevelyan would literally skin me alive if I killed you,” Varric informs me evenly. The ginger bastard isn’t even breathing hard. I’d kick him but I’m pretty sure if I try that my leg will just fall off. “You’ll be fine – a little sore, probably, but fine.”

“I hate you,” I tell him. “I hate this. I am not a mountain climbing sort of girl. My idea of a work out is fifteen minutes of yoga and/or dancing of questionable quality.”  

“I know. I’ve seen you prancing around the kitchen.”

I kick him. It hurts about as much as I expect it to.

“Ow,” Varric deadpans.

“Fuck you.”

“Maker, that mouth on you.” He’s so damn amused that I can hear the fucking grin that is no doubt splitting his face. The one that makes him look handsome in a very _every bad boy your mama always warned you about_ sort of way. I like that grin. It’s the only thing that pushes the wary, exhausted sort of hurt out of his eyes.

“You love it,” I mutter and press my arm more tightly against my face. God, even my eyeballs hurt.

“I do,” Varric agrees with a hum as he starts unloading the essentials from his pack – or at least, that’s what I assume he’s doing, going by the noises. He’s got Bianca leaning against something near my head. I can smell the oil he uses to keep her intricate firing mechanisms all slick. “It’s nice not being the only asshole in the group.”

“…fair enough,” I acknowledge after a beat. I’m confident in myself enough to admit that I can definitely be a bit of an asshole – usually not intentionally, but more because I can’t seem to control my mouth if my life depended on it. “You should be thrilled then. You’re surrounded by assholes. I’m an asshole, Max is an asshole, Solas is a sneaky asshole…Don’t think I didn’t hear you trolling the shit out of Vale last night!” I add, raising my voice over the quiet huff of protest.

“Trolling?” Varric clarifies quietly, wanting to know but not wanting to draw attention to my use of a word that might not really exist in their world.

“I believe she is referring to my baiting of the good Corporal,” Solas murmurs in response.

“Oh, when you were pretending that he must have an issue with you because you’re an elf?”

“…and/or an apostate,” I put in, because I’m pretty sure the whole camp had heard Vale apologizing profusely for implying that Solas is a criminal for not being locked away in one of their Circle tower things. Even though no such implication had actually been made. By the end of the polite seeming conversation the Corporal had been about thirty seconds away from falling on his sword in reparation for his supposed bigotry.  It’d been impressive.

“Yes.”

I move my arm, squinting against the glare of the rapidly fading light, to catch sight of the smug little smile playing at the corner of the elf’s lips. The rest of his face is unbelievably stoic, as smooth as a sheet of glass. “See?” I point out. “Sneaky asshole.”

This time the quiet huff is one of laughter and not some sort of halfhearted protest.

“You would not be the first to call me such,” he allows and I choke on the laughter that bursts out of my chest. “Are you not going to get off the ground, _da’lath’in?_ ”

I groan and close my eyes again. “Can’t. Everything hurts and I’m actually dead. My brain just hasn’t caught up yet.”

“You are not going to die,” Solas informs me with that pointed, unflappable calm of his. It’s utterly terrifying and soothing all at once and I know that he’s crouched down near my head not by his body heat or by the way my skin is suddenly shaded from the faint sunlight – though, those are there too – but by the way the air suddenly feels less heavy against my skin. “Here, drink this.”

After a moment of quiet rebellion – because I know where this is going, I fucking know it – I lower my arm and glare at the little vial of cherry red liquid Solas is holding between his fingers. “But it’s so gross,” I whine. Solas fixes his quicksilver gaze on me and raises an eyebrow. “I’m not making you drink tea,” I point out as I take the vial from him and wiggle the cork free, knocking back roughly a third of the vial in a single swallow. Four days out of Haven and I’m well aware of how this plays out and exactly how much I need to drink in order to not feel like someone has peeled all the muscles from my bones and lit them on fire.

New world. New life. New lover. And apparently a new drug habit. Awesome.

Also, ugh.

“Is this stuff addictive?” I ask as I hand the rest of the vial back.

“Not prepared like this,” Solas reassures me even as Varric responds,

“No,” and then pauses. “Wait, what do you have to do to elfroot to make it addictive?”

“I have seen memories of it,” Solas begins, in what is becoming a very familiar manner. _Once upon a time…_ and all that. The man has missed his calling in life. He’s a born storyteller. Well, when he wants to be. I’ve also seen him tell a story so dryly that I’d expected Cassandra to simply fall over in the middle of the road: dead of boredom. “I do not believe we have the capabilities to replicate the process. Nor should we have a desire to do so. Some things, I suspect, have been lost for a reason.”

The tone of his voice suggests that those reasons are completely valid and that, no, he will absolutely not be sharing any details. With anyone.

So a sneaky asshole, but an honorable one.

I like it.

“Huh,” Varric scratches at the stubble on jaw, clearly wondering what Solas could have possibly witnessed to throw him so off balance.  The elf is the ice to Max’s fire, a steady, creeping cold to contrast the quick, snap and flare of flames and, in Varric’s words, a _ruthless, unflappable bastard_. “ _We’d have been fucked without him,_ ” he’d said, telling me about what had happened before I came falling out of the rift. “ _The Seeker likes to turn up her nose and pretend that she had everything in hand but the truth is we’d have been turned over an Archdemon’s knee and absolutely fucked without him there. You missed it because you were busy with Swift and the Breach but Solas is the one that took down the Pride demon. No one else was even making a dent.”_

The Solas I know – the very, very little that I know – isn’t quite like that. Of course, as I’ve not been able to have any meaningful conversation with him outside of shared dreams my whole opinion on the matter is worth shit.

 Truthfully, a very large part of me hadn’t even believed that my Fade walking had been real. Of course, the day after we’d left Haven I’d blown that skeptism all to hell when I’d neatly taken the mug that Cassandra had shoved in his direction with a, “He doesn’t like tea.” Cassandra had thought nothing of it, especially not after Solas had verified this opinion and politely accepted the salty, meaty broth that I’d offered him instead, thinking that I knew his preferences from my work in the tavern. It’d earned me some looks from Max and Varric though, who both knew that Solas had not stepped foot in the _Singing Maiden_ even once and that I – despite efforts to the contrary – had never managed to make my way up to the hilltop where Solas lived near the apothecary. We have spoken often on the trip here, stories from Solas and questions from me, but the middle of a military convoy isn’t exactly the place for private conversation. 

And if Solas cares enough to warn me to run then he certainly cares enough to not spill my secrets – whatever the fuck they actually are – where everyone might hear.

And I haven't managed to dream myself into the Fade again.

“Oh look, Leliana’s lady dwarf finally let you go!” I exclaim as I spot Max standing behind Varric. God knows how long he’s been there, what with his sneaky ninja skills. Max snorts and drops next to Varric. “I don’t think she likes you,” I add.

“She doesn’t. At least not right now. She’s too angry.”

I blink. “Why the hell is she angry at you?” Max holds out a hand and catch it instinctively, letting him pull me up from the chilly ground and into the warmth of his lap. I shiver as he wraps arms around me and presses his face into my hair, inhaling deeply.

“Don’t do that. I probably stink.”

I can feel his lips curve against my skull. “You don’t stink.” I snort. Right. Cause that’s a totally believable statement after I’ve spent a day hiking up and down hills in a leather coat – a leather coat worn _over_ my regular coat. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, because they kept me from freezing to death but still. There’d been a lot of sweating. “You don’t,” he repeats insistently, drawing in another breath. “You smell… it’s calming,” he admits. “And I really need to calm down right now.”

_That_ confession has me sitting a little straighter in his lap, fingers tightening against the smooth, stiff leather of his armor. I twist a little, moving until his face is pressed into the curve of my neck, until I can get my fingers in his hair and rub senseless little patterns against the back of his skull. “What happened?” I ask softly. “Why is she angry?”

My eyes go to the woman in question while I speak. Best as I can tell she’s one of the higher ups of Leliana’s people. She’d clearly been in charge of this little camp up until we strolled in. She’s attractive – but then again, I’m beginning to think that everyone in Thedas is. Seriously, there’s got to be something in the water because I’ve never been surrounded by so many blatantly beautiful people in my damn life – with a fiery mane of hair, wide green eyes, and a flurry of freckles that just beg to be kissed. My first impression had been of someone hurting, but competent and strong willed. A fighter.

I narrow my gaze.

“She grew up around here,” Max tells me, “and between the war and the rifts there isn’t much left.”

“But none of that’s your fault,” I point out.

Max sighs into my neck, the brush of his breath hot against the curve of my skin and comforting in its own way. “Everyone expresses their grief differently and this… I… I’m just a recognizable face in a convenient position. I knew that this would happen, frequently, as soon as I agreed to do… _this_.” His hand flexes against my thigh and I can almost feel the pulse of the mark on his palm through the layers of coat and leggings. “Void, it’s not even been three weeks since the Conclave exploded. Most of Thedas still believes that was my fault.”

“It wasn’t.”

“We don’t know that,” he huffs unhappily. “It’s not my style but…” He inhales shakily. “I’m missing a day. I have an excellent memory, always have, and I’m missing an entire blighted day.”

“It wasn’t you,” I repeat. It wasn’t. I know it wasn’t. I don’t know _how_ I know it wasn’t but I’m sure – surer than I’ve been of anything in my life. Whatever it is that’s gotten lost from Max’s little gray cells, I am sure that deliberately blowing up a building full of people and killing some of the most important political and religious figures on this world isn’t it.

Max tightens his grip.

Across the clearing the fierce lady dwarf is glaring in our direction, hands planted on her hips.

I glare back.

I can be a bitch too.

“Don’t,” Max murmurs, but he sounds amused. Huh. Brain to mouth filter must have vanished. Again. I should really stop being surprised when that happens.

“Seriously, what is her problem?” Because she’s still glaring and frankly it’s starting to feel a little personal, like she’s going to march over here and throw Max face first into the fire. Or would, if there were one in the immediate, throwable vicinity. Max’s hand goes suspiciously still against my leg and I tighten my grip in his hair a little at that _totally innocent and not suspicious at all_ response. “Max…”

He lets out a disgusted noise that is disturbingly reminiscent of Cassandra. “Scout Harding,” he growls, “seems to be under the impression that you are here unwillingly and that I forced you to come with me to… satisfy me. Sexually.”

And oh, _hell_ no.

Normally I would think that Max had somehow implied it just to yank the scout’s chain. And by _normally_ I mean _abso-fucking-lutely._ It seems like the sort of thing he might do when he’s bored. Or pissed off. Or both. Definitely when he’s both.

But the growl that I can literally feel rumbling around his chest says otherwise.

It also says that he is not impressed by her assumptions at all. And fuck, but neither am I. Because it’s one thing to get pissy at him – or me, because let’s be honest, Thedas seems to have a much better grasp on the gender equality issue, but there’s always going to be bastards. Cough. Fucking Roderick. Cough. – but it’s another thing entirely to assume that I’m a victim of sexual assault just because I’m _here_.

“Fucking hell, I can’t believe she thinks _that_. She doesn’t even know me!” and if my voice is a little higher than necessary, well. “Does _this_ ,” and I wiggle very pointedly in his lap, smiling at the sharp inhalation that drags at my skin, “look _forced_? I mean, seriously. She needs to get her fucking eyes checked. And stay out of our fucking business.” I catch Scout Harding’s glare and flash her a big, blinding smile. One that’s all sharp and full of teeth. “If she doesn’t I’m going to give her food poisoning.”

I could do it, too. Environment like this? It’d be child’s play.

Failing that, I’m sure Varric’s got something nasty in that little box of liquids that he keeps or Solas could probably point me in the direction of some local flora that would put a literal cramp in the judgmental lady dwarf’s gut.

Max tightens his grip on me, hugging me even closer to his chest. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”

“Bitch, please. I’m always cute. And sassy.” Humble, too, apparently. “Plus, I like to do that thing with my tongue,” I add, purring as I tighten my fingers so much that it’s probably hurting Max, at least a little. He doesn’t tell me to stop though or try to remove them. If anything, he actually leans further into the curve of my neck, pulling the inky strands so taunt that I can feel them, just at the edge of breaking.

Behind me Varric chokes. “I didn’t need to know that,” he gasps out, still sputtering and coughing on a lungful of smoke.

“Surely you cannot be surprised,” Solas murmurs almost idly and I don’t need to turn my head to know that the mage has got a rather contemplative look on his face. He’s probably rolling his staff – his actual magic staff, _Jesus Christ_  - between his fingers, moving it from hand to hand. “We have been on the road for several days and they have made no efforts to hide the nature of their relationship.”

“I try not to think about it,” Varric mutters.

“You take notes,” Solas refutes, calmly throwing his tentmate under the proverbial bus.

This time Max is the one that chokes: a strangled huff of laughter that’s all but lost in the tangle of my hair and I can feel him ease a little more as the laughter bursts out.

“Well, yeah. I know best selling material when I hear it. My publishers will eat it up. Doesn’t mean that I _think_ about it though. I can be discreet.” The _sometimes_ goes unspoken but I bet we all hear it anyway.

“You are disgusting.” Oh, look, Cassandra. I’d been wondering when she’d be showing up. It’s been at least an hour since she’s made some sort of disgusted noise at us. The warrior woman crosses her arms across her chest and glares down her nose at us, a hint of pink painted across her cheekbones and frosting the tips of her ears. “You are a prominent member of the Inquisition, you cannot just… just _talk_ …”

Max very obviously bites down on my neck, just below my jaw.

Varric hides his laugh in another choking inhalation and I’m pretty sure that Solas might actually have a smile on his face.

Cassandra, predictably, turns bright red.

“You knew what you were climbing into bed with when you invited me there,” Max points out rather deliberately once he’s ensured that I’ve got a nice little bruise blooming just down from my ear. The noise of disgust that follows _that_ statement is enough for anyone listening to know that Max’s involvement in things had certainly not been done with her approval.

“This is not acceptable behavior!” Cassandra hisses, still glaring. And oh, that’s just not going to fly. Nuh-uh. Nope.

I open my mouth.

Oh, Jesus on the crapper, am I really going to do this?

Yes. Yes, I am.

Shit.

“As if your behavior is any better,” I snap, careful to keep my voice low enough that it doesn’t travel out of the circle of the five of us.

Cassandra blinks, head jerking back in surprise.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’d better, princess,” I mutter seriously and the sudden calmness to Max’s body is not reassuring in the slightest. I’ve watched Prime Time. Man like him gets calm and quiet? That’s when things get dangerous. “Look, I get that you’re very devoted to your Maker and I’m sure that he, like any other Big Daddy, probably has things to say about propriety and morality. Or at least people have decided that he does,” I wave my hand dismissively. “But what makes you think that that belief gives you the right to treat other people like shit?”

Cassandra blinks again. “I…”

“Nope. No talking,” the dismissive wave becomes an angry slash and her jaw snaps shut. Against her will, going by the sudden affronted look on her face. “You don’t like Max? Fine. You don’t have to like him to be polite and do your damn job. You don’t agree with his religious views? Also fine. World would be boring as fuck if we all held the same opinions. What exactly do you think is going to happen here, Cassandra? What do you think your perpetual tantrum is going to do? Do you think you’re going to suddenly convert him?” Max’s snort is loud enough to tell us all what he thinks of _that_ and Cassandra goes an interesting shade where she’s kind of pale and furious looking all at the same time. “Because that’s not going to happen. Why the fuck would he want to believe in a religion espoused by a woman who has treated him like shit? Do you think that if you harass him enough he’ll give in? And what happens when that doesn’t work? Are you going to escalate to your sword, your fists? Are you going to _beat_ your idea of acceptable into him?”

Max snorts into my neck. Again. “I’d like to see her try,” he growls and I give the back of his head a gentle smack.

_Not helping, genius_ , I tell him silently and he understands, I think, because he exhales softly against my neck and stands down. Just a little. Just enough that I’m not calculating how I could possibly hold him down with my limited body mass if he suddenly snaps.

All around us the camp is quieter. Not silent, but quieter. They’ve noticed that something is going on over here in our little copse. They haven’t heard what we’re saying, not unless one of the scouts is up one of the trees – which, actually, is probably true– but anyone with eyes to glance in our direction can’t have missed the kaleidoscope of pinks and reds moving across Cassandra’s face. Nor could they have missed the defensive lines of her body or the way her face is, right now, absent of all color, her tanned skin suddenly an ugly, unhealthy, dirty-snow white.

“I…  I wouldn’t… I…” the Seeker looks like she’s about to puke all over her shiny armor.

“Truth time, princess,” I continue, gentling my voice through sheer force of will. “I know you’re afraid and angry and sad, so sad that you’re choking on it. I know that inside there’s nothing but rage, red and hot and burning and so thick you can’t hardly breathe. _I know_ ,” I repeat, remembering the way she’d felt beneath my touch, the way the entirety of her had been reduced to a sad little rage monster, ripping and tearing and wailing. “And I know you’re having to do a lot of shit and take care of a lot of people and that you can’t take care of yourself the way you should because if you do the world may very well go boom. _I know_. But you’re not the only one feeling that. You’re not the only who lost something or even _everything_ when the Breach opened. Do you think it is easier for me? For Max? For Varric or Solas or any of them?” I motion to the soldiers and scouts moving around the periphery of my vision.

“No.”

It’s so quiet that I almost miss it but I see the word echoed in Cassandra’s eyes. I feel it even more than I see it, like taking something sharp to a fevered wound. The word lances it open and the festering anger spills out, mingling with the sorrow until Cassandra looks like a half drowned kitten. A _kicked,_ half drowned kitten.

I kind of want to get up and hug her.

I imagine that would go over well. She’d probably punch me. Or Max would punch her. Or something. There’d be violence, I’m sure of it.

“We all grieve in different ways,” I echo Max’s words from earlier. “You’re angry and you’ve got control issues. Varric’s burying himself in work and smoking enough to kill his lungs. I don’t know what the fuck Solas is doing, but I’m sure it’s sneaky. Max and I… well.” I give her a salacious eyebrow wiggle. “You don’t have to agree with it but you don’t have any right to stop it either. We’re both consenting adults and we are not harming anyone by fucking like bunnies.”

The crudeness brings a bit of color back to the other woman’s cheeks but she still looks like she’s half a second away from falling over. Jesus, these people can’t catch a break. I may not particularly like Cassandra – and fuck, but that woman is scary – but I’ve got enough intelligence left in my brain to realize that the woman that I’ve interacted with isn’t the real Cassandra. It can’t be. Not totally, anyway. Not after something like this.

Or that’s what I tell myself.

I’d like to believe she’s not that type of asshole.

The thought makes me laugh, or start to. I kind of cut it off and it comes out as this weird sort of huffing giggle snort thing.

“Oh god,” I mutter. “We really are a bunch of assholes.”

“I…” Cassandra blinks, mouth falling open a little at that. “What did you say?”

I give her a smile – a small one, true, but a real one. “Asshole,” I say, pointing to myself. “Asshole,” I tap meaningfully against Max’s head and he lets out a startled snort of his own. I point to Varric and Solas in turn, “Asshole. Sneaky asshole.” And then I wave my hand at Cassandra in some sort of vague _ta-da!_ motion.

Of course, without the use of both hands it just comes out as some sort of demented parade wave.

S’all cool.

“We’re like the League of Assholes,” I tell her seriously. “The heroes that Thedas needs but not really the ones it deserves. ‘Cause I’m sure they’d be all shiny and righteous. Or, you know, actually nice people.”

“Hey!  I’m a nice person,” Varric interrupts and I just stare at him. It’s awkward. And it makes my neck hurt.  Varric stares back for a moment and then he leans forward and jabs the stub of his latest cigarette into the packed earth at his feet. “And there’s the kick,” he tells me, like it’s won him a goddamn point.

 “You are not writing a book about me,” I repeat for the thousandth time.

“Sugar. Smalls. Hips. Of course I am. If I write a book about you I’ll finally outsell the Chant.”

“I… I do not know…” Cassandra is staring at us, so puzzled that I really, _really_ want to get up, walk over, and pat her on the shoulder with a _there, there_. “What just happened here? You were just… and then… and…”

“You’ll get used to it,” I tell her truthfully. “Well, if you ever pull that stick out of your ass you will. I’m a lover, not a hater, and truthfully princess? I think you’ve had all the truth bombs you can handle for the day. And I’m starving. When was the last time you ate?”

Cassandra blinks at me. I’m giving the poor woman whiplash but I can’t really bring myself to care. She’s not picking on Max anymore. Or trying to kill me. And she’s looking a little less like Mount Vesuvius thirty seconds before eruption.  So, you know, all good things.

“This… morning. I believe.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, staring. “I can’t even go two hours without a snack. No wonder you’re being a bitch. Hanger is no laughing matter.”

Also, something I can actually fix.

 

* * *

 

That night, just because I’m petty, I don’t try to be quiet.

And I’m not the only one who knows how to do cool tricks with their tongue.

Turns out Max is pretty petty too.

It’s more than a little hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - I can't believe it's been a month since I updated. I'd really like to say that the next chapter will be up quicker but I'm in the middle of making my sister's wedding dress (and my dress, and modifying a bridesmaid's dress), so I'd almost definitely be lying. 
> 
> 2 - I feel like this chapter could alternatively be titled, "What the Fuck Just Happened, This is Not What I Meant to Write" but you get to read it anyway because a) the first rule of writing, for me, is "In Muse We Trust" and b) it actually is exactly what I needed for Cassandra to develop the way I want her to. So. 
> 
> 3 - There are probably more mistakes than is usual. It's past midnight and I haven't slept more than two consecutive hours all week. Insomnia's a bitch. 
> 
> 4 - And, most importantly: thank you for your continued support, kudos, and comments. I made six dozen chocolate chip cookies today and I'd share them with you if I could.


	18. Fire and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, I'm back! I had hoped to get this chapter to you before the end of May but it didn't quite work out that way. On the flip side it _is_ a 9,000+ word chapter. So... yay?

It is spring in the Hinterlands.

That surprises me more than it should, I think.

It’s a destabilizing realization. The observance of freshly unfurled leaves and new, green shoots punching their way through a matted bed of dead grasses and half decomposed fallen leaves is enough to knock me on my metaphorical ass. Though, the first time I’d caught sight of the weeds and determined bits of new grass, the moment that I’d seen the soft green haze covering the skeletal arch of tree branches and realized what it both meant… well. It’d almost knocked me on my pretty little ass quite literally. Or at the very least I’d gone depressingly weak at the knees and almost face planted it in the mud.

The only Thedas that I’ve known has been one buried in ice and snow – the white peaks of mountaintops and trails caked in ice, a village strung with icicles and a lake frozen enough to walk across without fear. Three weeks ago it had been Christmas Eve. Three weeks ago I’d gone to my aunt and uncle’s annual holiday party: the family edition. Three weeks ago I’d been singing Christmas carols and fantasizing about cookies and then…

Here.

Here, a winter wonderland. A _vicious, lethal_ winter wonderland, sure, but one all the same. I’d even made a snowman to keep the poor bastard assigned to guard our door from getting too lonely.

It isn’t until the illusion is dispelled, until the continuity was ripped out from underneath me that I realized how much I needed it.

But it’s spring.

 Spring enough that my coat is too warm at midday. Spring enough that there are flowers blooming in clusters alongside the road. Spring enough that the air is filled with the musical notes of birds courting.

Spring.

Three weeks ago it had been Christmas.

Three weeks ago it had been Christmas and now I’m on a world with magic and demons and a medieval society and _it is spring._

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity _fuck._

I bite down, _hard_ , catching the tender flesh of my cheek between my teeth and grinding them until I bleed. The bloom of copper and salt across my tongue pushes back the hysterical laughter – the high pitched, awful kind that is prone to turning into full on ugly sobbing at any moment – that I can feel rising in my throat. Of all the things to make me lose my cool, of all the straws to break the camel’s back… it’s the fucking _weather_.

Figures.

It’s beautiful though.

Of course it’s beautiful. Everything about Thedas is beautiful, beautiful in that raw, untamed way that Earth generally left behind at least a century ago. Well, everything except for the whole burned and melted corpse bit but that doesn’t count. That’s not _Thedas_ but rather the violent bastards that inhabit it. The Hinterlands though, are something else. They’re not the sweeping mountain vistas of Haven but the juxtaposition of gently rolling hills and the occasional sharp, rocking cliff face thrusting out of the earth is bewitching. As are the little streams and pools of water that seem to sprout from fucking _everywhere_. Natural springs, most of them, at least according to Solas and I’m inclined to trust him on the matter. And it’s green.

It’s spring and it’s green and damp and full of _life_.

There’s some sort of allegorical point in all of it, I’m sure, but I’m too fucking tired to find it.

Sighing, I hunch over the warmth rising off of the mug of tea in my hands, take a cautious sip and go back to watching a trio of squirrels chasing each other in and out of the brush below me.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.”

I sigh again.

“I know,” I reply calmly and wow, how the fuck am I sounding so calm? Seriously? I deserve an award for this shit. My voice should not be so level when the sight of those pretty little red flowers growing at the base of that tree over there make me want to lay down on the ground and laugh until I’m nothing more than a sobbing mess. “I also know that you and I have very different opinions on what’s happening here.”

 I take another sip of my tea and turn my head enough to look at Lace Harding. Up close, well… there’s definitely something in the water here. Like pretty much everyone else on Thedas, she’s a looker with clear green eyes the shade of new grass and a wealth of freckles dusted across her face that I kind of want to touch with my tongue. Because _freckles_.

She presses her lips together, her jaw set in a stubborn line. “I can get you back to Haven. Leliana or Josephine or even Commander Cullen – they can get you out of here. Get you back to the Free Marches. You don’t have to sleep with him,” she repeats lowly, carefully.

“I know _that_ ,” I wave a hand dismissively. “Max would never force me. I’m sleeping with him because I _want_ to.” And Jesus, that doesn’t seem like it should be such a novel idea but going by the look on the lady dwarf’s face it sure as fuck _is_. Why, I’ve got no idea. Max isn’t pretty or gorgeous in that Sexiest Man Alive ™ sense but, oh boy, he’s like this sharp, stabby love child of a Loki-esque Tom Hiddleston and Adam Driver.

And yeah, that really works for me.

Also, the whole stabby, protective murder strut thing is hot. And he’s a flirty, sarcastic _ass_ and it’s kind of fabulous.

Plus, it’s _Max_ and I’ve imprinted like a baby dragon. The fact that it seems to go both ways probably makes the whole thing worse rather than better but hell if I know.

I swear to the Flying Spaghetti Monster, if there were therapists on Thedas I’d make them so goddamn rich it’s not even funny.

“So you’re after the Inquisition then? Trying to get in at the ground level?” Harding’s words bring me crashing out of my thoughts and I blink at her as they settle into my brain.

“What…? Oh. _Oh_. Oh, god no. _Hell_ no,” I exclaim, panicked. Me? In a position of _actual_ authority? Oh, fuck no. I can handle feeding everyone and that’s about it. And, let’s be honest, that’s just because there’s cooking and food involved. If I can’t bake away my anxieties I can damn well eat them. “Look, with great power comes great responsibility and all that – historically, that hasn’t turned out so great for me. The last time anyone gave me legitimate authority I lived off of cinnamon rolls and coffee. I gained fifteen pounds -” which, no biggie except I had the build of an eleven year old boy and fifteen pounds gave me hips and a legitimate need for a bra as something beyond nipple control. I’d had to buy a whole new wardrobe. It’d been traumatizing. And expensive. “- a crippling caffeine addiction, and had a major depressive episode. I’ve no desire to repeat the experience.”

Harding just stares at me, the pink curves of her lips pressed into a line that clearly says that she does not buy what I’m selling. “For someone that claims to not want power you’ve certainly put yourself in a position where you have a lot of it. When they,” and she jerks her head backwards towards the camp and the soldiers puttering around, “talk about the higher ups they talk about you in the same bracket as Leliana, Lady Montilyet, and the Commander. They talk as if you are just as vital as _him_.” She spits the last word with enough distaste that I know she can’t mean anyone else except Max.

I sigh.

“Look,” I try again, forcing my voice into something gentle because that’s better than trying to shake some sense into the lady dwarf, “I can see how, from the outside, it looks like I’m making some sort of power play. I really do. But honestly? I’m where I am because I fell out of a fucking hole in the sky and they wanted to keep an eye on me. I’m where I am because I’m romantically involved with the other poor bastard who fell out of an even bigger hole in the sky. Max may be in a place of authority now with his,” I make a weird little _pffbbt_ noise and wave my hand accordingly, “but they originally thought he caused all this shit. So, sure, I have tea with Josephine, yell at Cassandra, and stare at maps with Leliana but that’s because they’re still mostly operating under the _keep your friends close and your enemies closer_ mindset.” I give Harding a pointed look, daring her to disagree with me. She doesn’t. Surprise, surprise. “And I badger Cullen because I’m pretty sure if someone doesn’t remind him to eat and sleep he’s just going to keel over any day now.”

_That_ at least, Harding seems to believe.

Of course, I think anyone that’s actually spent more than five seconds with the notorious Commander probably agrees with me.

“So…” she stares at me, eyes narrowed, lips pressed, arms crossed over her chest, and completely closed off. “If you’re not being forced and you’re not in it for the influence then _why_ are you here?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” I answer honestly before I can stop myself. “Because Max didn’t want to leave me alone in Haven. Because…because he looks at me and sees me and cares anyway.” I look back out at the landscape spread before me and hunch back around my tea. It’s beautiful and it’s spring, the rolls of the earth covered in a dozen shades of green. It doesn’t look like a warzone but it is anyway. “I appreciate your concern – I really do – but no one is making me do anything. Not even the sex.”

Scout Harding has to try one more time, “They – Leliana could send you home. Away from all this.”

I don’t laugh hysterically. I don’t cry. I don’t lay down on the earth and weep for want of Netflix and indoor plumbing and twenty-four hour WalMarts. I don’t scream until I can’t breathe and my vocal chords are shredded for want of my mom. No. I take a sip of my tea and reply gently, “Home isn’t always a place.”

It’s never been a place. Not for me. Not really. How could it when the first dozen years of my life were spent constantly moving from one place to the next? From house to house? From family to family?

No. Home has always been people.

And with Mama B gone – oh, god, don’t think about that. _Don’t. Fucking. Think._ -  Max is the closest thing I have left.

Jesus, _fuck_ , I am so screwed.

 

* * *

 

I can smell the Crossroads long before I can see it: a sweet, putrid smog that is entirely too reminiscent of the time that I lost a package of chicken thighs underneath the seat of my car and didn’t discover my error until it had sat for a full twenty-four hours in the Georgia summer. It fills my nostrils and clings, thick and viscous to the back of my throat until I want to shake my head like a wet dog to dislodge it.

“Jesus,” I mutter as the corpses come into view, a dozen or more poor bastards littering the road like garbage blown from the back of an overfilled truck.  There’s no rhyme or reason, no organization to be read in the fall of their bodies. There’s nothing but mindless death and so much blood in some places that it shimmers in sticky puddles upon the packed, half-frozen earth.

“Listen,” Cassandra orders tersely, her words pulling the entire group - us five assholes, Corporal Vale, and his squad of two dozen soldiers – to a halt with her words. “You can hear the fighting.”

I sigh.

I don’t want to hear the fighting. I don’t want to fucking _see_ it either. In fact, I’d kind of been hoping that the pathway of death here was the end of it, that I’d get to push off my exposure to medieval warfare until later. Not actively, because I’m not completely stupid, but it’d been a little bitty hope coaxed into existence by the same unquenchable spark of optimism that had me showing up at Stephen and Carol’s for holiday dinners and birthday parties.

Of course, despite the little bitty hope, I’d actually thought that not being flung face first into the whole experience about as likely as my family being, well, one big happy family.

I sigh again.

“…heavy armor,” Max is saying, head tilted to the side, completely focused. “Probably Templars.”

The answering look on Cassandra’s face is one of mixed derision and curiosity. “Harding’s report stated that there were…”

“…multiple hostile encampments. Yes, I know,” Max dismisses the scout’s report with a wave of his hand. “But unless the various banditry camps have started outfitting themselves with plate mail, it’ll be the Templars up ahead. I can hear the echo.” Cassandra blinks but apparently Max is saying something that makes sense because she nods.

“Then there will be mages as well.”

Max nods. “Corporal!” his voice is low and steady, scarcely more than a whisper, but the crack of command is enough to make the other man jump at least a foot in the air and hurry over.  “Templars and mages ahead,” he informs the soldier shortly, cutting off the other man’s greeting. “It’s going to be a mess. If there are any civilians left get them out of the bloody way.” It’s clear from his tone of voice that he doesn’t actually expect there to be many, if any, civilians left for the soldiers to pull from the mess.

I kind of hope he’s wrong.

Of course, the field of corpses that we’re standing in says that he’s probably not.

Bugger.

Cassandra gives Max a fleeting, odd sort of look. “Varric, you will need to find some high ground. Focus on the mages first…”

“… I have fought battles before, Seeker,” Varric drawls. Cassandra ignores him.

“…and Solas, the Templars will try to nullify your powers immediately. Most smites are limited to a ten foot radius around the Templar, so if you keep to distance attacks…”

“…this is not my first experience with Templars,” Solas interjects mildly. “I am an _apostate_ ,” and wow, I can hear the finger quotes and Solas may be the most deadly, subtle sassmasster I have ever met because he doesn’t blink or flinch or even break into a glimmer of a smile. In fact, I’m pretty sure I might be the only person here that knows just how amused the elven mage is – and I’m pretty sure that’s just because I can feel it: fur, soft and silken, sliding across my skin, “but I thank you for your concern.”

_It is not me you need to be concerned about_ , his voice says, words unspoken but heard anyway.

After all, it’s not the Templars alive and standing before us now.

Max’s lips twitch. Just a little.

_Pleased_.

“You,” he turns to me, pleasure wiped from his face and leaving the lines of his face sharp and serious. “ _You_ will stay behind Varric at all times. Clear?”

I jerk my head, instantly ceding to his authority. In the kitchen, in _my_ kitchen, he sits at the table and stays out of my way – unless I need him to be tall or strong and then he just does what I ask before retreating back to his spot. This? This hellish mess of blood and death and putrid flesh is his kitchen and behind Varric is my _spot_. And I sure as fuck intend to stay there.

 “Crystal.”

Max nods, his entire form rippling as he shudders out a sigh. “Corporal? I have need for your two best men.” The soldier nods, eyes flicking between us in understanding.

That makes one of us, at least.

I inhale slowly and wait. Now is not the time to be impatient.

Two men splinter away from the squad of soldiers at some unspoken order and jog over to us, armor rattling. One of them is a fucking beast, all broad shoulders and chest beneath the weight of his armor, his head hidden by the hard metal lines of his helm, and carrying a shield that’s almost as big as his entire goddamn body. The other is slighter and dressed more like Max – more like _me_ – in lighter metals and hardened leathers. Max eyes them suspiciously, dislike flickering in his gaze as they automatically bow and greet him with quiet “Ser”s, fists clenched over their hearts.

“Private Moore,” Vale introduces quietly, motioning at the slight one. “And Recruit Whittle.”

Max raises a dark eyebrow in cutting judgment. “Recruit?”

“He’s young and fresh but he’s had a good foundation and knows what he’s doing,” Vale reassures firmly. “The Commander trains with him personally,” he adds after a moment of hesitation, clearly unsure whether such information is going to help the situation or make it blow up in his face.

Max’s face smooths out into something eerily blank as he turns his gaze – a gaze that’s hard enough to cut glass, Jesus fucking Christ, Max, give the kid a break - to Recruit Whittle.

 The poor bastard.

“Have you been in any actual combat situations?” Max asks bluntly.

Recruit Whittle looks like he might piss himself but he nods calmly. “Yes ser. I was in Haven when the Conclave…” the soldier swallows nervously. “When the Conclave was destroyed. Skirmishes before then.”

“I served in Redcliffe’s guard,” Moore adds when Max turns to him and that must be enough of an answer because Max sighs and wraps a hand over the curve of my shoulder.

“You will protect Avery. Nothing else. No matter what,” he orders, voice sharp, hand gentle as he strokes away at the back of my neck. His touch is steadying, grounding. I had not realized how much I needed it, how much I needed to feel _life_ and _warmth_ against my skin until I had. “If you fail I will skin you alive and leave you in a bloody heap for darkspawn to find.”

I sigh.

Threatening, I am discovering, is Max’s default setting. It’d be ridiculous except he obviously means every fucking word. And is more than capable of carrying out said threats. Gleefully.

The soldiers’ eyes widen but they snap their fists to their hearts and agree, “Yes, ser!” without hesitation, their eyes turning to me. Speculative. _Determined_.

Oh, god. They’ve found _purpose_. I can practically feel it, bubbling like excitement right underneath their skin, surging through their veins with all the restraint of water shooting from a firehose.

I sigh again.

“Hello, boys,” I drawl.

“Play nice,” Max murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Let’s go,” he adds, jerking his head toward where Cassandra has gathered the rest of the soldiers, pacing back and forth in front of them like a caged tiger. Wordlessly, Vale falls into line behind him and leaves Varric, Solas, and I with my new bodyguards.

_Bodyguards_.

Jesus fucking Christ on some goddamn shortbread. I have _bodyguards_.

Now I know I’ve lost it. I’m locked in a little room somewhere in a straight jacket and enough pills to make an elephant sleepy.

Oh, god. Stop thinking, stop thinking, _stop thinking_.

“I’m always nice,” I mutter back, biting off the hysterical giggles I can feel bubbling in my throat and rubbing my sweat drenched palms against my thighs.

Varric chokes on his laughter.

“Fuck you,” I snap as I flip him off. “See if I ever make you baked goods again.”

“You’re the nicest, kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever met,” Varric replies instantly and wow, he actually sounds  a little too serious. Like he might have actually _meant_ it, which is just cray cray. “Just stick behind me, Smalls. Bianca will keep you safe.” I nod and force myself to swallow around the lump in my throat. “It will be alright.”

I nod and I follow.

 

* * *

 

It’s not alright.

It’s loud, is what it is. _So fucking loud_.

I hadn’t thought that it would be loud. Quite the opposite, actually. Lacking some sort of sweeping musical number and the sound of guns and bombs I’d thought that this war waged with swords and magic would be a great deal quieter than any ideas I had about the actual sounds of battle.

Yeah, clearly I’d been mistaken about that.

Swords and shields are _loud_. They’re made of metal, which, hello, I totally knew but I didn’t understand. _Because everyone is swinging it around and trying to murder each other with it and it sounds like five hundred fucking bells are all ringing at the same time_. Jesus Christ, my brain’s about to vibrate out of my skull and leak out my ears in some pulverized mush.

And that doesn’t even take into account the yelling. The crying. The swearing and the _screaming_. Oh my god, I’m going to be sick because they are killing each other out there and there is nothing – _nothing_ – _quick_ or _quiet_ about it. It’s noisy and messy - a cacophony of fear and desperation and violence so strong I can feel it wrap itself through my chest and _squeeze_.

Max and company haven't thrown themselves into that mess yet, giving Varric, Solas, and I time to take position on the knoll just to the west of the road. Or rather, time for Varric and Solas to take position. _I_ am hiding in the copse of trees behind them, pressed up against the trunk of a rather magnificent oak with Whittle at my shoulder and Moore off to the front of us, an arrow notched and waiting.

Watching.

Because what else can I do but watch? They deserve someone to watch, someone to witness, someone to drown in the sounds of their dying and their desperation.

They deserve to be seen by someone who won’t forget them once they are nothing more than blood and flesh being stomped into the mud.

It’s not more than a minute but it’s enough time to glance over the Crossroads and get a first impression of this place to which we’ve come, to feel it settle around me like smoke and water, pulling and tugging and whispering down into my lungs until I’m choking on it.

The Crossroads isn’t a very big place. In all honesty, the entire settlement – which, is, in fact situated around the place where two wide, packed earth roads intersect – takes up less space than a city block. There are maybe a dozen buildings total, all of them just as small or smaller than the little cabin that Max and I inhabited and definitely in greater disrepair. Of course, at least half of them are actually on fire at the moment so the state of their walls is probably pretty irrelevant. There are a few groups of armed men moving between the building, swords and shields out, ripping open doors and dragging people out of their houses. An even larger group – one nearly as large as ours, I think – is surrounding the group of building sin a loose circle.

Well, loose and drawing closer, I note as most of the Templars take a step forward.

A net, a noose, slipping tighter, though on what – or _who_ – I’m not sure. The mages, I assume, but I can’t see…

Oh.

_Oh_.

Jesus motherfucking Christ.

That’s… that’s…

“Holy shit,” I breathe out, staring at the sudden bloom of fire that had burst into the air, a miniature mushroom cloud of red hot flames that appeared out of nowhere and incinerated one of the Templars where he stood. And yeah, I can get why the entire fucking world seems terrified of mages. Don’t agree with the whole lock ‘em in a tower approach but objectively… yeah. I get it.

Jesus.

The armored men immediately whirl toward the rise of ground on the other side of town, two dozen hounds suddenly gone to point at the blatant evidence of their prey.

That’s when the Inquisition hits them.

Led by Cassandra – who bursts into view, plants herself in the middle of the road with her sword raised dramatically in the air, and lets out a roar that makes every single person on the battlefield _flinch_ – the Inquisition’s soldiers plows through the line of distracted Templars with all the subtlety of tsunami.

“Oh, god,” I mutter.

If I’d thought it’d been loud before, clearly I’d been wrong. This isn’t just _loud_ , this is complete sensory overload. The noises of the suddenly three way battle are so overwhelming that they cease to be contained by one sense and spill over into the other. The clang of metal to metal becomes a bright copper exploding across my tongue, like blood except for more acidic, as if somewhere between being a sound and becoming a taste it had been mixed with lemon juice. The cries of pain and roars of challenge morph into the sensation of hot water, slick and just warm enough to burn, spilling across my skin in a way that leaves me raw and shaking. Even the sound of the _magic_ being cast – and yeah, that’s probably one of the weirdest thoughts I’ve had today – translates to little colored sunbursts exploding on the back of my eyelids.

And even then it is still _so fucking loud_. They’re all there. Every single one of them. They’re all pushing at me, desperate and demanding. Some are angry. Some are focused. Most of them are so terrified that it’s ripping my goddamn heart right out of my chest…

…and I _can’t_ … I can’t… I don’t… I am a fucking _chef…_ from fucking _Atlanta_ … and I don’t… I can’t…

“…alright?”

The deep, unfamiliar voice – concerned though it is – brings me out of my panicked fugue faster than a well-placed slap to the face. I inhale sharply, dragging air into lungs that are burning and try to blink away the black spots dotting my vision. Jesus, my hands are shaking so fucking badly that it feels a bit like I’m hitting myself as I press them to my lips in an attempt to hold back the cry I can feel building in my throat.

“Lady Avery?”

I blink again and Private Moore swims into focus.

“Are you alright?” he repeats, sparing a glance back in my direction as he draws another arrow from the quiver on his back.

I blink.

“J-just peachy,” I manage to rasp out when it becomes clear that he’s not going to let up until he gets a verbal confirmation. Which, probably smart, but what the hell do I know. “It’s just m-my first…” I flail a hand inelegantly at the battle and swallow harshly because now that I’ve managed to tear myself away from the never ending cascade of _noise_ I can’t stop _looking_.

It’s a nightmare. It’s chaos. It’s some of the darkest bits of humanity, drug from the little shadowy corners of our souls and flung out to snarl and roar in the broad light of day and the only way the Inquisition is going to come out on top of this mess is if they put everyone else in the ground.

Jesus.

I’ve never been religious but fucking _Christ_ , I might just start. Just for the hope. For the belief that there’s something, some-fucking-where that might protect me in the middle of _that._ Shit on a stick. I have… I just…

The entire world snaps into focus as I catch sight of Max out of the corner of my eyes. I’d like to say that recognized the way he moved or the sound of his voice or some romantic-esque shit like that but that’d be lying. The truth is one moment he’s nowhere to be found and the next minute he’s simply _there_ , striding through the chaos like it’s his own personal runway.

_I kill people and I enjoy it._

_I’m very good at it._

At the time, the words had been an abstract observation, something that I could hear and acknowledge but not something that I could understand. Not really. No, this I needed to see.

He moves like smoke, like water, fluid and unstoppable. Uncontainable.

It’s beautiful.

It’s terrifying.

It makes everything inside of me settle, like I’m some frantic puppy soothed by the mere act of their human stepping into the room. Once again I’ve stepped out of the hurricane and into the calm of its eye simply by being near him.

It’s beautiful.

It’s terrifying.

“Get down!”

Once again the sound of a voice yanks me out of my thoughts and wow, I really need to stop doing that. Spacing out in the middle of a fight, bodyguards or no, cannot be good for my health.

…and there’s the panic.

Oh, goody.

I hit the ground like a ton of bricks at Varric’s shout and the tree - the tree that I had been leaning against _ohmyfuckinggod_ \- explodes. The crackling boom of lightning hitting the earth is enough to send my ears ringing as I cling to the ground, eyes half covered with a hastily flung arm as the oak, which had to have been at least twice as big around as I am, shatters down the middle flings little wooden pieces of shrapnel everywhere. The air is heavy and charged, crackling with the residue of the attack and the scent of ozone filling my nostrils with an almost painful intensity.                                                                                                         

“Well, I’d say the mages have noticed us,” Varric observes dryly, but his face is tight, eyes scanning the area around us for imminent attack. He’s with me, down on his belly with Bianca sheltered beneath the broad stretch of his shoulders. It takes a moment but I do find the others, eventually. Whittle is further down the rise of the hill, staggering to his feet and shaking his head. There’s a Templar behind him, stumbling a little, but not enough to keep him from getting his sword up.

_Shit_.

I open my mouth to… shout a warning, I guess, but Whittle’s not as out of it as he appears. Or at least, the fact like he’s stumbling around like he’s completely wasted and shaking his head like a wet dog doesn’t stop him from swinging his shield around and bashing the Templar in the face with enough force to make the bastard’s armor ring like a gong.

“If Curly’s bothering to train with him personally, then trust me, the kid can take care of himself,” assures Varric and I take him at him at his word. Not much else I can do at this point. “C’mon, Smalls. We’ve got to move.”

“But…” I’ve finally caught sight of Moore and he’s face down in the dirt and not moving. I don’t know him, not really and passing acquaintance we have is by mere chance, a collision of his skills and a mutual need for Max and I to stay within the other’s orbit. Still, it’s enough that my heart skips a beat in my chest, breath catching at the sight of him lying there.

“Can’t do anything for him,” Varric snaps, hauling me up to my knees. “Not yet. Right now you’d just make him a bigger target.”

And that… that would be bad.

Varric tugs on my coat and I go, stumbling a little before I manage to get my feet under me. Instead of heading deeper into the woods - _away from the fight like a normal person -_ he leads me down into the chaos and the burning buildings. I follow because, well, what the hell else am I supposed to do?

Twenty feet later and I start to regret that inclination. Not because I don’t trust Varric, because I do. Outside of Max, I trust him more than anyone else I’ve met here on Thedas.

No, I regret because it is hot. Too hot, the licks of flame leaping dangerously close to the hems and sleeves of my coat as I pass by.

Oh god.

 I really, really don’t want to practice my stop, drop, and roll. I am too fucking young to die. I have plans, damn it. Not, like, concrete, solid, _actual_ plans because that would require having my shit together but… plans. Vague, _I have got to do this shit before I kick it_ sort of plans. Also, would stop, drop, and roll even work on a magical fire? Or would I be hypothetically fucked into a piece of charcoal if I get a little too up close and personal with them?

And, oh sweet Jesus in the sky with diamonds, the charred scent of overcooked meat is not helping, not a single fucking bit.

“Shit.”

Varric shoves me and I yelp, stumbling once, twice, before going down in a graceless heap against a wall of stones.  A very _warm_ wall of stones. I’m halfway to my feet before the tell-tale _click, click, click_ of Bianca loading catches my attention.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I breathe as Varric orders, “Maferath’s balls, Avery, _stay down_.” And really, it’s the sound of my own name coming from his lips that makes me press back against the foundation of the poor house that, wow, yeah, is still on _fire_. Not cool.

_Not the time for jokes,_ I tell myself as I duck around the corner. _Jokes are for when you’re trying not to die._

I stifle the hysterical little giggle that threatens to bubble out of my throat like some mento and coke experiment and press myself as close to the ground as I can get at the sight of the three armored men suddenly looming out of the smoke and screams. Not good, not good, not good. If we got out of this Varric and I are going to have _words_ about why the hell we ran into the fire and fighting instead of _away from it_.

One of the Templars hits the ground two steps later, doing an admirable impersonation of a pincushion, but the other two are moving. They’re close. And, oh god, I don’t know what the statistics are for men with swords versus a dwarf with a semi-automatic crossbow but I imagine it’s pretty similar to the whole knife versus gun scenario. What is it? A gun wins until the knifeman is inside twenty feet? Well, those Templars are a whole lot closer than twenty feet. I know Varric has a knife or three stashed on his person but I don’t know if he’s got time to secure Bianca and draw his alternate weapon. And I’m pretty sure he’d let himself get skinned alive before he’d abandon Bianca. I suppose I could help but I don’t really have a weapon – which, in hindsight, is pretty damn stupid because _war zone_. Maybe I could bash their heads with a rock? Except I’m about the same height as Varric and…

…the crash of metal on metal disrupts the panicked run of my thoughts…

… _fuck,_ I have really got to stop getting distracted or I’m not going to survive long enough for my sass to get me into trouble and that would be a goddamn shame at this point. It’d almost be a disappointment at this point to not get killed for failing to think before I speak…

No. _Focus_ , Avery. _F.O.C.U.S._

Recruit Whittle has caught up with us and his attack is doing a  fantastic job of giving Varric enough time to get some distance and…

… a distinctive, unmistakable cry has me whipping my head around so fast that it’s a miracle that I don’t break my own fucking neck.

Oh god.

No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no.

Not that. Nope. Can’t handle it. Want to go home. I’m done. I’m… fuck it, I’m already looking.

The cry upgrades to a full blown wail and it hits me like a metal bat to the gut. _Shit_. Shit, shit, shit on a fucking _stick…_ I gasp weakly, struggling to draw air in my lungs while I…

There.

The kid can’t be more than two or three years old, their clothes little more than a shapeless, pillowcase like gown that hangs in tatters across their small body, arms half flung out like they’re begging to be picked up – Jesus, they probably _are_ – tears streaming down a soot and blood smeared face. It is, hands down, the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen and I feel it, a fist digging its way into my chest and ripping out my heart – _painfearscaredsoscaredwhereismommyiwantmommy._

Oh god.

It’s not going to be my mouth that gets me killed today.

“Varric…” It’s probably a Very Bad Plan to make noise in this sort of situation because a) it’ll draw attention and b) it could distract Varric but considering the dwarf has spent the last bit saving my ass I feel somewhat obligated to warn him that I’m about to do something… stupid. 

Oh, and he knows it too judging by the fact that he instantly barks out, “Don’t do it, Smalls!”

“Too late,” I mutter. I’m not entirely stupid. I don’t just sprint over to the kid like we’re playing in a park. Instead, I keep close to  the buildings, skirting around too warm foundations and stifling coughs in the crook of my elbow as I try to watch everything around me at once. The smoke makes my eyes sting and the back of my throat itch but I don’t dare shield my eyes. Fuck, I hardly dare blink. If I blink I could miss something – _someone_.

_Blink and you’re dead_.

The giggle that I can’t hold back is more than a little hysterical.

_Later_ , I tell myself and scoop the child up into my arms. They let out a little scream, high pitched and sharp, terror complete and overwhelming. But they cling onto me anyway. Their little arms and legs wrap around me with a desperation that makes me choke and their little head shoves its way under my chin as their body shakes with the force of their sobs.

“Hey, hey baby,” I murmur soothingly, holding them close. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. We’re going to get the hell out of here, alright? Just hold onto me. That’s right, kid. Just like that. I’m not going to drop you. You’re alright now. You’re safe.” Ignoring the filth smeared across the kid’s face and matted in their hair I press a gentle kiss to the top of their head. “It’s alright. I’ve got you now.”

I eye the brush on the other side of the road speculatively. The lack of fire and the potential hiding spots are appealing. Would it be better to…?

No, I decide abruptly, as what looks like a small avalanche appears out of nowhere and sends several armored bodies flying. No it would _not_ be better.

The Crossroads may be on fire but the bulk of the fighting seems to have moved beyond the village itself and left it empty. Trio of Templars and abandoned child notwithstanding.

So.

Back to Varric.

“Alright, we’re going to go find my friends now, okay? They’ll keep the bad guys away. And you’ll like Varric. He seems like the sort that’ll either be really awful or utterly fantastic with children. And he’s got some great stories. Most of them are probably not entirely appropriate for children but I won’t tell if you don’t. But the flask in his pocket isn’t a sippy cup so don’t even ask.”

I’m, like, ninety-nine percent certain that the kid isn’t listening to a fucking word that I’m saying, which is actually alright because I’m only about sixty-five percent certain that what I’m saying is even remotely kid appropriate. Or actually makes sense. Of course, at this point I think I could probably just shout out random words or talk them through the lastest episode of Supernatural and it wouldn’t even matter. The talking is what is important here, not the words.

Which is pretty much my communication wet dream.

 Hey, silver lining. Look at that.

Also, awkward. Because I’m holding a _child_.

God, I’m going to hell.

I don’t even believe in hell but I’m pretty sure I’m going there anyway. And wow, I really hope that none of this is coming out of my mouth. Please, sweet baby Jesus, let my mouth be saying something else. Pretty much anything else. The Pledge of Allegiance. Nickelback lyrics. A breakdown of what I would make and serve on _Diner’s, Drive-ins, and Dives_ and/or _Beat Bobby Flay_. Meaningless platitudes.

Literally _anything_.

“…see? We’re almost there and then once this is over we’ll get you a cookie and hot chocolate. Or something. They’ve got to have chocolate or something similar on this planet, right? If you don’t, I’m dying. I refuse. Also, tea just doesn’t seem as comforting when you’re two. I’m pretty sure I can make a cookie over an open flame though. Skillet cookies are a thing. And they totally count as dinner. Or breakfast. Don’t let the haters convince you otherwise…oh, shit.”

This, _this_ is why I’m not supposed to zone out inside my own head in the middle of a fucking battle. My fight or flight is clearly broken beyond repair and first world white girl living has done my self preservation exactly _zero_ favors.

_This_ , is one of the biggest goddamn men I have ever seen wearing enough plate mail to make him look like a small airplane and holding a...a… whatever it’s called with the thick handle and the goddamn _pointy boulder_ attached to the end… like it weighs _nothing_.

A maul. That’s what it’s called.

“Brilliant,” I mutter to myself. “Because if you can tell him the name of his weapon he’s not going to crush you with it. Perfect plan.”

The man takes a step towards me, maul inching a little higher and I scramble backwards, slipping and sliding across the ground.

“Okay. Okay. Okay,” I whisper frantically, mind racing. I’ve got to think of something because I’m no Oberyn Martell and there is no fucking way I can go toe to toe with the Mountain and _win_ or give any illusions thereof. No, I’ll get my head bashed in in point two seconds. Tops.

The kid’s arms tighten around my neck, their shoulders hitching and I tighten my grip instinctively.

Right.

Child.

Child that is terrified and possibly hurt and that I can’t defend because I know absolutely nothing about combat.

So.

New plan.

Keeping an eye on my would-be executioner I tip my head back and scream so loudly I can taste blood at the back of my throat. “ _MAX!”_

The noise, of course, sets off the tiny human in my arms but now, at this point, I want to draw attention. I _want_ someone to notice.

Preferably Max. Or Varric. Or Solas. But I’m not picky. I’ll take Cassadra or Whittle or Vale or anyone of the other Inquisition soldiers. Hell, I’ll even take one of the rogue mages, so long as they’re more focused on kicking Templar ass than on anything else.

The Templar grins, sharp and feral and grips the handle of his maul in both hands, swinging up upwards as if it weighs absolutely nothing.

And, _holy shit_ , a man in that much armor should not be able to move so fast.

The kid and I both scream as I throw us to the side, knowing even as I do it that it’s not going to be enough, it’s not going to take us out of range of the weapon spinning in his hands. Something slams into my shoulder and I go down with another shriek, twisting to contort myself around the kid in my arms as we hit the ground and roll.

I grimace, gasping and biting back the bile that rises in my throat at the sudden pain lancing through my shoulder. The kid is screaming hysterically again and I’m bleeding from where their hands are digging into my flesh and it doesn’t matter. I grit my teeth and heave us to my knees, to my feet, upright, anything and…

Private Moore is on the ground behind us, lying where we would have fallen, with one arm twisted at an unnatural angle beneath him and blood staining his mouth. There’s no weapon in sight but he’s scrambling at something hanging from his belt with his free hand. As soon as its clenched in his hand he throws it, his face going an alarming shade of white at the movement and the small bottle hits the Templar in the shoulder. It shatters on impact, a muddy orange liquid spilling across his armor and dribbling down his arm and chest. It darkens almost instantly, moving from orange to a burnt brown and hardening in a very quick-cement fashion.

The Templar roars, slamming at the frozen joint with his free hand over and over and over until it begins to crack and _Jesus_ why I am I watching? I need to move, I need to… my gaze flickers back to the Private.

I must make some sort of movement towards him because all of the sudden Moore’s staring at me across the few feet separating us. “ _Run_ ,” he manages to gasp out between clenched teeth stained crimson with the blood that’s beginning to trickle out of the side of his lips.

It’s a good plan. A smart plan. A let’s-stay-alive plan.

But I can’t move.

I’m lost, locked between one breath and another while something fierce and burning claws at my gut and forces its way up behind my ribs like a volcano beginning to erupt. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe against the pressure, can’t breathe past the muddied copper taste coating my tongue. I can’t…

It’s either the child’s fearful sob into my neck or the sound of the… cement stuff… cracking that knocks me free.

Or both. Probably both.

Inhaling sharply, I run. Tripping, moving, stumbling backwards and nearly falling over my own feet. I run.

I make it about ten feet and then movement behind the Templar catches my attention and my heart promptly stops in my chest.

Max.

His armor has turned an uncomfortable red color that I don’t really want to think about and half of his hair has come free of the leather he’d used to secure it at the nape of his neck this morning but it’s definitely Max. Moving, god, I’d thought the Templar had been fast but Max is faster and he’s not slowing down. Instead he leaps, one side to the next, feet pushing off the corner of one house’s foundation and then the burning wall of another to propel him into the air. He comes down on the Templar’s back with dull crash, the force of it sending the larger man to his knees as he swings his hands downwards, blades flashing in the sunlight as he slams them into the back of the Templar’s neck and wrenches them away in a movement that sends blood fountaining into the air.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, staring as the Templar’s head hits the ground and his body collapses.

Max strides off the corpse like it’s a fucking elevator and uses the metal bits of armor strapped to his forearms to wipe the worst of the gore off his face as he walks over.

“I thought I told you to stay behind Varric,” he says tightly.

I shrug a shoulder in silent apology. “I couldn’t,” I offer and tighten my grip on the child.

 Max jerks his chin in silent acknowledgement and reaches out like he wants to brush the hair out of my face but stops himself just shy of actually touching me. Probably because of the knife still held in his hand. The blood’s probably a good deterrent as well.  “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He raises and eyebrow and glares. I let out a sigh. “I swear. I’m probably going to have a bitchin’ bruise on my shoulder but I’m fine. Moore… he…”

“I saw.” He lets his hand fall and we both look to where Moore is lying in the dirt.

When Max starts walking towards him, I fall in line behind. Like hell am I going to leave Max. Not unless he explicitly tells me so in short, easy to understand words. And even then I’ll probably argue at least a little. I just… I can’t. I’m done with being brave.

“Shh,” I whisper into the child’s hair and gently rub one hand up and down their spine. “It’s okay. Max has got us now. He absolutely won’t let anything happen to us.”

The kid whimpers against my neck and I don’t blame them. I’m not sure I’d believe me either if I were in their place.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I breathe out a moment later as I stare down at Moore. The man is a wreck. He’s got the one arm that is obviously broken, twisted next to him with his elbow spun around and shoved a great deal closer to his shoulder than it really should be but the worst of it is the wreck of his lower abdomen. The maul must have hit him there, I realize after a moment of vacant staring, my brain trying to make sense of what my eyes are seeing. The light armor had been nowhere near enough to protect against it and it’s caved inwards, the fine metal links shoved up into the mess that has been made of his torso and glistening wet strands of smashed intestine spill out through the tears in flesh and metal despite the hand that Moore’s got clasped over them. His hand is the only reason he’s not literally spilling his guts all across his lap and down into the mud. “Oh god, you poor bastard,” I whisper, voice catching as I sink to my knees.

Fuck, he’s there because of me. Because he…

I inhale sharply and clench my teeth so tightly against the bile burning in my throat that they squeak.

 Max crouches at his side, his fingers going to the other man’s throat and Moore’s eyes flicker open.

“Ser…” his voice is a wet, breathy whistle that rattles uncomfortably in his chest. “Lady…”

“She’s fine. Unharmed,” Max reassures instantly, his voice incredibly gentle. “You did good, soldier.”

Moore lets out a shuddering sob. “Thank… Maker…”

I choke back a sob, blinking past the tears that well up in my eyes. I’m alive because of this man. The child in my arms is alive because of this man. Because he took our place.

I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I feel his insides against my skin, warm and wet and a little sticky. “Thanks to _you_ ,” I correct softly, lacing my fingers through his and pressing down gently, trying to keep his blood, his _life_ , where it belongs.  His eyes flicker in the direction of my voice, the brown of his pupils glassy with pain and growing duller with each passing second. “We’re here because of _you_ and we’re going to take care of you now, okay? You’ve done your bit and now… now…” I glance up at Max and he shakes his head gently, confirming what I didn’t want to know.

There’s no coming back from this.

There’s no magic potion to fix _this_. To put Moore back together.

I tighten my grip on his fingers and close my eyes against the pain that sweeps through me. The volcano is back in my chest and I can taste it, bright and sharp on my tongue but edged in a biting cold that is slowing eating away at it, consuming the heat and the pressure and vanishing it into an empty numbness. A final night creeping across the land.

I exhale and open my eyes.

“Please…” Moore whispers, so faintly that at first I’m not even sure that I hear him.

“Please what?” I force myself to ask past the pressure in my throat, the choking sensation of trying to draw a breath through a soaked pillowcase thrown over my head.

“Of course,” Max assures instantly and I catch the sight of knife twirling up into place in his hand.

My fingers jerk, tightening their grip until it has to be painful and I want to cry out, to scream, to _stop it_ but I don’t.

There’s no stopping this. _This_ is a mercy, a blessing and I can’t deny my savior his escape.

Max is quick and sure in his movements, pulling the fingerless glove from Moore’s hand and shoving up the sleeve of his coat to bare the veins at the underside of his wrist.

I can’t watch when the moment comes, turning away to look instead at the fallen soldier’s face. He doesn’t speak again but his fingers twitch beneath my own when Max makes the cut. I squeeze back and hold his gaze. He deserves to have someone watch. He deserves someone to be there for him. _With him_.

So I am. I’m with him as each beat of his heart eats away at the pain. I’m with him until there’s nothing of the volcano left, until there’s nothing but _cold_ and _empty._ I’m there until his fingers go limp, until that final glimmer leaves his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Max says after a moment but I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to Private Moore.

I swallow past the tightness in my throat and cling, one armed, to the child until I can feel the rise and fall of their chest and the pounding of their little heart.

“There is only one god and his name is Death,” I quote quietly in response. And today Death would not be swayed away from what is his due.

“I might actually be religious in that case,” Max retorts with a bitter little laugh. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go find Varric.”

I ignore the blood on both of our hands and let him haul me to my feet.


	19. Splinter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's been an entire month again. Good news though, thanks to the fact that (once again) a chapter has ended up at least twice as long as anticipated you should get the next chapter pretty quick. Hopefully. *side eyes the Muse*

The child, it turns out, is a girl.

Her name is Mea and she’s two years old.  Her mother is dead, reduced to nothing more than humanoid shaped charcoal lying in the steaming ruins of what had been their home. Her father is alive. Of course, he’s got a broken leg and enough burns that I gag at the sight of him but he’s _alive_. So, you know, there’s that. Quickly, I turn away before I upchuck all over some poor idiot and press Mea’s face into the curve of my neck. Like hell am I going to let her see her dad look like he’s half a step away from being served up as BBQ. The poor kid’s going to have enough nightmares, I’m sure.

I know I am.

“Alright,” I exclaim with false brightness as I step out of the partially demolished hut that they’re using to house some of the worst of the injured – or rather, the badly injured that they expect that they’ll actually be able to treat. It’s a distinction that I’m trying really fucking hard not to think about. That effort doesn’t stop me from glancing up to where Max has gone to speak with Mother Giselle, who has popped out of the woodwork and is handing out last rites or comfort or something of that nature to the poor bastards who aren’t expected to make it. “Alright,” I repeat, giving my head a little shake. “Let’s go find something to eat, huh? Food makes everything better. And maybe some tea. And a blanket,” I add and rub my hand up and down the chilled flesh of Mea’s arm. Jesus, but she’s freezing.

The little body in my arms trembles as she tightens her arms around my neck.  I tighten my own grip in response. She’s not the only one shaking like a leaf. Though, unlike Mea, I lack the ability to blame the constant tremor of my body on the rapidly chilling air. Nope, stuck beneath the layers of woolen coat and leather armor I am toasty warm – physically, at least – and my own shivering is one hundred percent down to shock. God, I hate being shock-y. It’s a bitch.

Deliberately I draw a slow breath in through my mouth and push away the way my hands shake and the way they look, stained reddish brown and crusted over as they cradle Mea.  For just a moment, just a split second, I can feel the pulse and push of blood and organs, slippery and hot, and I slam my eyes shut as my sight goes blurry and the entire world rotates unpleasantly. Fuck, but I do not have time for this shit. I clench my jaw against the bile burning in my throat and draw another breath. One that I regret immediately.

Jesus, fuck.

Caught between the rock of throwing up if I open my damn mouth and the hard place of throwing up if I smell the remnants of the battle again in the near future I simply settle for not breathing. At least for a little bit.

I give myself until the count of thirty and then, bile settled precariously back in my stomach where it belongs, I open my mouth and take a hesitant breath. It’s only better than the last one in that I don’t actually smell all the blood and ash and other visceral, disgusting things that have been beaten into the mud but it still makes my stomach roll uneasily and a cold sweat break out on the surface of my skin. I can’t really smell it but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I need to gargle my mouth out with bleach and then pass out but hey, that’s probably an improvement over actually passing out. Especially since I’ve got a child in my arms and I don’t think she would appreciate being dropped into a muddy puddle as the cherry on top of her day.

Ignoring the screaming sensation at the back of my skull and the icy weight pressing on my sternum I lay my cheek against the top of Mea’s head and take another deep breath before murmuring, “Hey. Hey, it’s…” I trail off because I can’t really say _it’s okay_ because it is very obviously not. Not for either of us. Not right now. Not when the air still smells of blood and death and ash. “It will be okay,” I finally whisper into her hair. “I know it probably doesn’t seem that way but it will be okay.” It’s dangerously close to a promise, which is probably something I shouldn’t be making given everything that’s happened but…

“Hold ‘em steady!”

Across a little bridge spanning one of the larger springs a pair of Inquisition soldiers have pulled a soot stained form from one of the collapsed buildings. A body, judging by the careless way that they let it fall into the mud. Or a Templar. Though, if the poor bastard is the latter then they’re about to become the former. Max had been terrifyingly ruthless after the battle ended, calmly slashing the throat of every Templar body we crossed paths with just to verify that they were dead. It was a bloody, awful display that should have disgusted me – did disgust me, the smell of it making my stomach roll threateningly - as I stepped over and around veritable rivers of blood. But it had also filled me with a fierce sort of gratitude and sent a burning flush of pleasure bubbling through my veins. The kind that is full of sharp teeth and appreciative glances and throws back to the point in human evolution when we picked our mates based on their strength as providers and protectors.

Besides, each dead Templar is a Templar that is not trying to swing a maul at my head. So… that’s a win.

One of the soldiers is bent over, holding the body by the shoulders while the other has one of his booted feet planted on the dead man’s thigh. “Ready?” I hear him ask and the other one must nod because the one standing on the dead guy’s legs releases the clasps that hold the armor together. Then, grabbing the plate mail around the edges, he tugs.

For a minute nothing happens.

But then the other man gives a tug as well and the whole thing splits open like a rotten egg.

Not the armor – though that definitely separates as well – but the man that had been wearing it.

_Magical fire must burn hotter than the regular stuff_ , my brain observes with great detachment. Because that’s the only excuse I can think of for what spills out of the armor. The armor itself, as far as I can tell, is mostly fine but inside… inside… whoever had been inside of it is dead and melted, their flesh stuck to the inside of the plate mail in long strings that tear with a sound like that of wet laundry flapping in the breeze. The flesh and muscle tears, the bones crack ominously and pop apart at the joints and everything else…

Everything else just cascades out in a steaming pile, the scent of cooked flesh filling the air.

Mea lets out a surprised little cry as I all but dump her on the nearest dry patch of ground and I turn, fall to my knees, and vomit.

Fuck, but I hate throwing up.

Hangover, heat stroke, food poisoning, and the goddamn flu – I’ve done my time with all of them and none of them are fun.

This is worse.

So. Much. Fucking. Worse.

It’s not just throwing up, it’s like someone has reached down my throat with a hot poker and is trying to yank everything from my small intestine on up back out again. After giving it a good jab and scramble. It’s throwing up so hard that my head is screaming, the pain of it just triggering another round of heaving as a cold, sticky sweat coats my skin and soaks through my clothes. I’m shaking so badly that it’s a goddamn miracle that I haven’t gotten any vomit on my own clothes. Or simply fallen over.

Off to the side Mea is crying: short, little worried sobs like she can’t get enough air into her lungs but has to cry anyway, regardless of the lack of oxygen.  “No baby,” I slur out between the heaving of my stomach, wobbling dangerously as I throw a hand out to stop her from getting any closer. Her small little fingers grab at my coat sleeve with a desperation that makes my heart break behind the pain and the dizziness and the giant spear of cold that is working its way into my chest until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t hardly string two fucking words together beyond the haze that’s crowding over my mind.

Mea screams: short and sharp and so full of fear that I bolt upright, ignore the fact that my body is still trying to upchuck everything I’ve eaten in the past decade, and lunge after her disappearing fingers.

I blink.

“…balls, she’s fast,” a familiar voice exclaims from nearby. “Hey, kid, don’t give me that. She’ll be okay. Chuckles will make it better. Why don’t we… I know he doesn’t look like a Chuckles, does he? It’s the face but let me tell you…” The voice grows fainter and fainter but the faint rumble of it soothes the flare of panic that had ripped through me at Mea’s cry.

_Varric_.

She’ll be alright then. Varric won’t let anything get to the toddler. Worst case scenario she learns words and phrases that a two year old shouldn’t really know. Which, honestly, could be listed as a downside of associating with me at the moment, too hurt and off-kilter for my already broken brain-to-mouth filter to work even a little.

I blink and attempt to drag in a lungful of air.

My stomach heaves.

I’m back on my knees in the mud and the muck, leaning over something solid and warm wit

h a cool weight settled over the nape of my neck. “You need to breathe, Avery,” a second voice rumbles in my ear. “Slow, deep breaths. Do not push yourself _da’lath’in.”_

_Solas_.

Something inside me crumples, the relief of his presence making me dizzy – or, it would have, if I hadn’t already been dizzy as hell. He’s not Max – no one else is _Max_ – but Solas isn’t about to let me projectile vomit my own ribs out onto my boots.  Thank god.

Bone weary and aching, I slump against the leather clad thigh braced beneath me and try to follow directions. It’s about ten thousand times harder than it should be but I get there eventually.

“Did you hit your head?” Solas asks gently once I finally manage to go a whole minute without heaving. The cool fingers of his hand are gentle against the base of my skull.

I blink, trying to clear my thoughts.  “N-no,” I stutter out after a moment.

“Did you receive any injuries? Were you cut or stabbed with anything?”

I start to shake my head. Fuck, but that’s a bad plan. Such a bad plan. I immediately freeze and Solas strokes the back of my neck with his thumb, coaching me through the next several breaths with a voice barely above a whisper.

Ugh.

I am never moving again.

Ever.

Solas chuckles.

Jesus fuck me with a side of fries, I have got to stop speaking out loud without realizing it.

“No,” I repeat hoarsely. “Just a bruise on my shoulder where…” … _where Moore knocked me out of the way and kept me from looking like bug guts on a windshield._  I swallow. “It’s just s-shock. I think.”

This level of puking seems a little extreme for shock but what do I know? I’m not an expert. I don’t even play one on TV. I’m just clenching my jaw against the rolling in my stomach and wondering if Solas will be all disgusted with me if I accidentally puke down the front of his armor. Because on one hand he’s got this stuffy, refined, aloof sort of thing going on but on the other hand… Well, he kind of strikes me as a terribly practical man with not a lot of fucks to give about the world in general.

Also, despite the chills shaking through my body and the icy weight on my chest, the coolness of his fingers against my skin is a goddamn gift and I will fight anyone that says otherwise.

“The violence of your reaction is a little extreme for shock,” Solas murmurs, echoing my own thoughts. “I am worried that you might be suffering from a head injury or that you might have possibly been poisoned.”

I blink. Poison? Huh. That’s… that’s more than slightly terrifying if I’m being honest and I’d probably be freaking out about it except, “I didn’t get cut,” I insist. “And I didn’t hit my head. It’s just…” I trail off unable to articulate the feeling.

“It is just what, _da’lath’in_?” Solas prods gently after several minutes of silence in which I carefully take several more breaths and try to figure out how the fuck to describe how I’m feeling in a way that doesn’t make me sound like I’m several French fries and half the nuggets short of a Happy Meal. “I am not comfortable giving you anything unless I am confident it will not make it works,” he adds with a sharp dryness after I continue to hesitate.

Bastard.

Holding back the good drugs until I talk.

Smart, though.

Also, possibly against some sort of ethical thingy?  At least on Earth. Of course I’m not on Earth and ethical treatment seems a little more… fast and loose here.

“… heavy,” I finally settle on, even as my nose scrunches up at how inadequate it is as a description.

Gingerly, I turn my head and rest my cheek against his leg, the new position allowing me to look up at the mage’s face. Solas is studying me intently, his quicksilver eyes narrowed and his lips pursed in thought. “What is heavy?”

“…everything.” I shut my eyes for a moment and fight the urge to rub my cheek against his leg like a cat. Despite the gore on the ground and the smoke in the air he still smells like leather and _cold_ – that crisp, fresh scent of a hard frost or freshly fallen snow. I kind of want to bury myself in it except we probably look odd enough as is without me flailing all over him like an overexcited kitten. “Everything is… I can… They wanted it so much,” I finally manage to get out, feeling more than a little like I’m tripping over my own tongue. “The Templars wanted to kill the mages and the mages, they wanted to make the Templars _hurt_ – hurt like they were hurt. And neither one of them cared who got caught in the middle. They just wanted the other dead, wanted to see them _bleed_.  It’s still here, hanging in the air and it makes everyone else…” _sad, desperate, terrified_ “…and I can feel it.” If I’d been able to move enough to tap at my chest I probably would have, right at the spot where my ribs branch out beneath the curve of my breasts. “It’s this big, heavy thing and I can’t… I can hardly breathe and when I do, I can practically taste the weight of it.” I manage a small, humorless laugh. “And saying that just makes me sound like I’m fucking insane.”

“No it doesn’t,” Solas says almost instantly as he brushes his thumb back and forth across the top knob of my spine. “It makes a lot of sense, actually.”

That gets me to open my eyes and I blink up at him. “It does?” I ask suspiciously. “How the hell does it make sense?” Because it doesn’t. It doesn’t make any sense at all.

Solas stares back, his face once more serene. “Take this,” he instructs and I eye the small vial – this one half full of a viscous looking green liquid – with trepidation. “It is a Restorative Potion,” he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There is some elfroot in it but it is primarily extracted from a mint and tea leaf base. It tastes significantly better than the Standard Health Potion that we’ve been giving you.”

Still giving the vial the stink-eye I let him slowly help me into a more upright position and let him tip the vial at my lips, my hands still shaking too badly to manage it for myself. He’s right. It does taste better. Still as slimy as the primordial ooze from which all life crawled, but definitely better tasting. Kind of soft and minty with a delicate floral after taste.

I groan as it flows down my throat and hits my stomach. It’s a little iffy there for a second where every muscle in my abdomen clenches in preparation for potion expulsion but then the potion kicks in and dear god this is the best stuff ever. The touch of it is like that first moment of blessed nirvana when you spread cold, goopy aloe on a really bad sunburn.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” I breathe reverently, eyeing the empty bottle with awe. “Why haven’t you been giving me _this_ instead of the nasty shit?”

“Because _this_ will not help with blood loss, hypothermia, muscle exertion, or a rather long list of minor injuries. The Standard Health Potion does. A basic Restorative Potion is only good for soothing upset stomachs and heads and for giving a little jolt of energy.” Solas’ answer is calm and factual but the corner of his mouth twitches in aborted amusement. The asshole. “Varric keeps quite a stock to help combat hangovers.”

A hangover cure? I look the little vial with renewed interest. I know quite a few people back home that would have sold their souls to get something that worked more effectively than aspirin and coffee. I tuck this little bit of information away for another day. I’ve never been a big drinker – a cocktail with friends, a glass of wine when I’m cooking with it, sipping at a beer over a poker game or sitting on Mr. Anderson-next-door’s front porch and listening to him tell me stories about serving in ‘nam, and, occasionally, a shot or two of something  significantly harder after a really, really shitty day – but I’m not stupid either.

“How long before it wears off?” I ask as my head begins to stop spinning.

“Provided there is not an injury or a disease responsible for your recent illness, the effects on your stomach shouldn’t fade. The energized feeling should last a couple of hours before you crash. I thought you would not object, seeing as you have yet to make a single cup of tea or bully anyone into letting you cook something,” adds Solas, eyes gleaming.

“Asshole,” I mutter, but I’m grinning because those had been the next items on my To Do list.

“So we decided,” he acknowledges blandly but the fucker’s smirking beneath that stoic exterior. I just know it.

* * *

 

 

There are five other children either orphaned or without a viable caretaker ranging from a boy who can’t be more than eight or nine to restless baby currently being held by an older lady elf who is trying to cough out her lungs with the same force that I had been trying to upchuck my intestines with.

“There wasn’t any place for them to go,” Varric greets us with, Mea balanced on his hip with an ease that makes me smile, “so I just rounded them all up and brought them here.” _Here_ , being a flat little area on top of a small rise to the south of the road we’d come in on. A few of the Inquisition’s soldiers are already setting up our tents in neat rows and a few of the braver Crossroads refugees are gathering warily at the edges of the fledgling camp. “Figured once Chuckles got you feeling better that you’d take over and do your thing.”

I arch an eyebrow. “My thing?” I repeat.

Varric motions at the pathetic assortment of beings huddled around the coughing woman. “I found lost ducklings for you to mother and shove food at.” And I’d really like to argue against that being my thing. I really would. But that feels a little too close to lying. I know myself. I show my emotions in food. Stress, love, the whole tangled gamut of them expressed in baked goods. “Never let it be said that I don’t get you excellent gifts.”

My dry drawl of, “Thanks,” isn’t nearly as dry as I would like it to be and something that feels suspiciously like warm marshmallow fluff goops all over my heart for a second. Because I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s giving me something to _do_ , something – _someone_ – to worry over, to fill up my brain and occupy my hands so that I don’t have to fucking _think_. God bless Varric Tethras.

“No problem Plucky.”

“ _Plucky_?” I repeat, more than a little hysterical.

Varric smirks.

I sigh.

“It’s better than Smalls,” I acknowledge with a huff, “…or Hips. But not by much.”

Varric smirks some more. “Go cook,” he makes a shooing motion. “I’ve got her… and them,” he jerks his head at the other kids who are still eyeing all of us with wide, terrified eyes. “I’ve got a story about a beautiful pirate queen that should keep them out of trouble.”

That is simultaneously reassuring and more than a little worrying. My brain can think up at least a dozen different, dirty, not-appropriate-for-those-under-the-age-of-eighteen ways that _‘a beautiful pirate queen’_ can take. But he’s also got Mea tucked, asleep, into the crook of his neck and is kind of swaying slightly as he stands next to me – a gentle, rocking motion meant to soothe. It’s something you really only see in people who frequently hold small children.

“Alright, alright,” I tell him, holding up my hands in surrender. “But if you teach them some inappropriate sea ditty to sing in place of the chant-thing don’t expect me to save you from Cassandra.”

The smirk on Varric’s face morphs into something positively evil. “That,” he acknowledges with a giddy sort of relish, “is an excellent idea.”

Solas steadies me with a gentle touch to the small of my back, keeping me from falling flat on my ass when I face palm with all the force the situation calls for.

The movement makes my stomach twist ominously and the iciness in my chest still hasn’t gone away but I push both sensations away.

Later, I tell myself as I clench my fists to hide the shaking in my hands. If there were ever an inappropriate time for a meltdown, now is probably it.

So.

Tea.

Then I should probably figure out what I can make to feed several dozen people before my Thedosian equivalent to Red Bull wears off.

But first, “Would you mind introducing me?” I ask Varric with a tip of my head.

“Of course.”

Varric leads us across to the little huddle, the projection of _miseryhopefearpainexhaustionresignation_ so loud that they might as well advertise their thoughts and feelings in neon lights on the Vegas strip. I swallow roughly, stumbling a little as it crashes over me. Shit. I wince beneath the weights of Varric and Solas’ stares.

“Everyone, I’ve got a couple of people I want you to meet,” announces the dwarf once we’re closer. “The bald, egg headed elf…” Solas sighs, “…is Solas. He’s a mage but don’t let that scare you – Chuckles is a good guy. He’s a companion of the Herald and helped him seal the Breach in the sky so that the demons would stop coming through.” Six pairs of eyes dart to the apostate at this announcement, eyes suitably wide at that introduction.

_“An'daran Atish'an_ ,” he says solemnly, offering a small tip of his head in greeting.

“I’m pretty sure that means hello,” Varric drawls with a wink that makes one little girl of about six giggle around the hand clasped over her mouth. “The lovely lady next to him is Avery. She’s the Herald’s mis… uh… partner,” he corrects after another glance at the children, “and I’m going to let you in on a secret – _she makes the best pastries._ So be nice to her and she’ll probably make you something pretty tasty.”

The looks I get are a little more skeptical than the half-awed, half-fearful looks still being shot at a longsuffering Solas but that’s not really unexpected. A badass apostate is loads more interesting than a chef. Even if I am pretty kick ass with flour and a rolling pin.

“Hey, ducklings,” I greet with a smile and a weird little wave – oh, god, why do I have to be so fucking awkward. With a sigh and a prayer to whatever higher powers might be glancing in my direction I leave the safety of Solas’ steadying touch and lower myself gingerly to the ground, flopping down between Varric and Solas’ feet. “So… what are your names?”

After a moment of – justified, let’s be honest here – hesitation the children introduce themselves while Solas makes his way over to the lady elf. I can hear him asking her and the man sitting next to her something in a quiet voice and after a minute or two of conversation he runs his fingers along the woman’s throat and tap deliberately at certain spots on her chest. Probably trying to figure out the whole coughing situation, I realize as I nod along to story the six year old girl is telling me about why her parents picked her name – Laurel. Something to do with a rare plant that her father searched after in what sounds like a pretty epic quest in his efforts to woo her mother.

The oldest boy is named Duncan, after the man who apparently saved his mother from some darkspawn. I’m still not entirely certain what a darkspawn actually is, but the name alone says that it’s not something good. I think they have something to do with those blight things that get brought up sometimes? I make a mental note to ask Varric. Duncan, unfortunately, is one of the orphans, though the dismissive way he says it makes me think that it’s not a terribly recent development. The hurt is dull and old, faded but still robust.

Marcus is a chubby little toddler and Laurel’s baby brother. Their mother still lives and is helping the Revered Mother tend to the injured. There’s no mention of a father and I don’t ask but the fact their mom is still alive and well makes the weight on my chest press a little less sharply.

Of course, that momentary respite is dashed into a million fucking pieces when I learn that the baby – a girl named Tabitha – and her older brother Triston, who is probably just a year or so older than Mea, have lost both of their parents today.

“Their father,” the elderly man explains slowly, “he tried to talk to the Templars. It… it did not end well.” No, I imagine that it wouldn’t have. Their hate and determination had been a wild thing: unstoppable, untamable. “Their mother was trapped in their house as it burned. She threw the little ones out the window.”

Jesus.

I swallow tightly and blink against tears burning uncomfortably at the corners of my eyes. “Oh baby,” I murmur to the little dark eyed boy who hasn’t moved from where he sits, with his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin resting on his knees, since before I sat down. Triston stares back at me, the brown of his eyes so dark that they’re almost black. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper hoarsely, even though I know it doesn’t mean anything. Not to him. Not to a three year old who has just lost his mom and dad. But something is better than nothing. Sitting where we both are I can just barely ruffle my fingers through the dirty brown strands of his hair.

The brief touch is like an electric shock, racing up my arm to explode behind my eyes in a blur of images and sensations. There’s wall in front of me – _hurtscaredwhatishappening -_ flames already licking through the cracks, and a woman – _mommommommywhydidyouthrowmeoutthewindow?_  - yelling down at me.

“ _Triston! Mama needs you to hold still? Hold still and catch Tabby, just like when you played toss with daddy. Hold still and catch Tabby!”_

I inhale sharply and get up on my knees, reaching out until I can untangle one of Triston’s hands from where he’s gripping his legs. “Oh, baby,” I whisper brokenly as I gently run my fingers over the cuts and abrasions that litter his little palms, splinters and rocks embedded in his flesh from where he had fallen when his mother had thrown him to a greater chance of safety. Splinters and rocks that had been driven further into his hands by the painful jolt of catching his sister…

_…hurtscaredstingscryingwhatdoIdowhereismommywhyisntshecomingoutwhereismommy…_

“Your mama would be very proud of you,” I tell him firmly and my voice doesn’t break. It doesn’t, goddamn it. “She would be so proud of you, you listened really well, baby. You got you and Tabby to someplace safe.  You did such a good job.” Tears streaming down my cheeks I press a gentle kiss to the relatively unmarked flesh at the base of his thumb. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Let’s get this all cleaned out and feeling better and then we can get you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

Dark eyes gleaming, Triston stares at me for a long moment and then he nods. Just once.

“I bet. I’m hungry too and I haven’t been nearly as brave as you today. So let’s get you and everyone else cleaned up and then we’ll get something yummy,” the words are rambling, streaming straight out my mouth without any help from my brain at all and fuck… I can’t… I just…  I can feel the tears streaming down my face and dripping off my chin but I can’t bring myself to let go of Triston’s little hand to dash them away.

I just can’t.

The weight is so heavy on my chest that I can practically feel myself cracking beneath the force of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... a note that is not exactly related to this chapter but that I've been meaning to slap up here for the last couple of chapters anyway, so:
> 
> When I first started playing around with the idea of a Modern Girl in Thedas with a non-modern girl Inquisitor one of the first ideas my Muse got stuck on was the idea of the Herald/Inquisitor being a _Not Good Guy_. And I don't mean in the "is mean and makes selfish and/or shitty decisions over the course of the game" way. I mean in the way that would lead Leliana and Cassandra to legitimately thinking that they killed everyone at Conclave (and not just blaming them because they were the sole survivor). Thus, the first little bits and pieces of Max were born. And this is something that will get explored quite a bit - though the story is from Avery's perspective and right now, at the beginning, she just doesn't have the necessary information to get into what is going on. But this is part of the reason why Cassandra is so hostile, why Harding is so quick to form and believe awful things of him: because _Max is not a good person_. Slap that boy onto an alignment chart and he's somewhere between Chaotic Neutral and Chaotic Evil... and which way he falls off that fence rather depends on who he has to deal with and how pissed off he is. He is a killer who likes killing. A nobleman's son who became an assassin because he enjoys it. He's not a psychopath or a sociopath but he's violent and has Very Firm Opinions about the Chantry, Templars, and the current balance of power in Thedas (and none of them are terribly flattering for the aforementioned groups). He wants to change the world and he is willing to accomplish it by any means necessary - and if he can't accomplish it he's more than willing to watch the world burn than to let it go back to the way it was.
> 
> When he fell out of the Fade they locked him up not just because he survived but because _they knew who he was_ and believed that he had finally come to kill the Divine (for his own reasons or for money). In my own little canon, he's faced off against Leliana before. He's killed people placed under Cassandra's protection. He may have not had anything to do with the actual destruction of Kirkwall's chantry but everyone is pretty sure that he's helping Anders evade the chantry's efforts to capture him. When the Inquisition was founded Josephine noted his importance as a neutral party or, more accurately, as someone to balance out the heavy bias towards the chantry and tradition. For comparison, if I were to put the "Fearsome Foursome" of this 'verse on an alignment chart it would be: Cassandra - Lawful Good, Josephine - Neutral Good, Cullen - Lawful Neutral, and Leliana (hardened) - Lawful Evil. Avery is a Chaotic Good. 
> 
> If I had to summarize Max with one quote it would be a line from _The Chronicles of Riddick_ "In normal times, evil would be fought by good. But in times like these, well, it should be fought by another kind of evil."


	20. Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here the fic goes, crossing the 100k line. I feel like I should throw you all a party for sticking with me and supporting this monster. Or at least compensate you with fudge and hand rolled truffles for your time.
> 
> Comments are the best.  
> (And according to the husband unit, also make me blush until I look like a lobster)

“Are you alright?”

The sound of Max’s voice is like being wrapped in a warm, fluffy blanket even if does make me jump half a dozen feet into the air. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Don’t fucking do _that_. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Varric said you weren’t doing well,” Max continues as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

“Varric is a dirty little gossip,” I growl, eyes flickering over to where he stands next to a cluster of evergreen trees.

He hadn’t changed out of his armor before going to meet with Mother Giselle but he had done so when he was finished speaking with her, exchanging it for a lighter set of leathers that are remarkably similar to what he had made for me, and washing the blood and gore from his skin and hair before he had found us. Between Corporal Vale giving his report and the ducklings taking up my attention he hadn’t been able to do much more than press a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth – which had made Laurel break out into shrieking giggles – and steal a slice of the skillet cookie I’d managed to throw together. Oatmeal. Though, thanks to the lack of ingredients and the substitutes of others it’d turned out more liked baked oatmeal. Not that anyone had been complaining. The knowledge that food had been scarce and that feeding them too much, too quickly would likely involve a big mess for everyone to clean up and re-emptied stomachs had kept me from shoving every last crumb of it down their throats. Instead, I’d let them each have a generous piece and then tucked them in a small nest of borrowed blankets with half full mugs of steaming, salty broth and the admonition to sip slowly and carefully.

They’d mostly listened and no one had puked so I’m counting it a win.

“Varric is almost as good at collecting information as Leliana is, except while she deals with politicians and their secrets he’s more likely to cozy up to a gang of little pickpockets.” Huh. If that's true that probably explains why he does so well with the kids. Max shrugs and slinks out of the twilight shadows to stand next to me, close enough that his arm brushes my shoulder and I can feel the heat of him. “Whittle may have mentioned something as well. Twice.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m _fine_.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“Traitorous bastards,” I mutter because they are, in fact, possessing of a fine, continuous tremor that has steadily been getting worse for the last half hour. Solas’ magic potion has pretty much worn off and I’m feeling it: a bone deep tiredness that drags at me and makes behind my eyeballs itch and burn. No doubt that I’ll be out like a fucking light the second I lay down. I’m rather looking forward to it. I’m just really fucking ready for this day to be over.

Sighing, I lean into Max and let him loop an arm around me, pulling me closer so that he can turn and press a kiss to the top of my head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and I freeze.

“…huh?” I ask, unintelligently.

“I’m sorry that I made you come.”

There’s a dirty retort in there, I know that there is, but I just can’t bring myself to make it. There’s being an asshole and then being an _asshole_ and while I have no issue laying claim to the former I’d rather not become the latter.

Instead, I shrug. “Eh. You needed me…”

“…which is not a good enough excuse to drag you into a bloody war zone…”

“…plus if I hadn’t what would have happened to Mea? Nothing good.” No, I imagine she’d have burnt to death. Or the damn Templar would have smashed her like a bug in his effort to make sure that all the mages were dead. Fucker.  Just the thought of it makes me want to watch Max kill him all over again, which would be worrying if I didn’t have an entire list of things to worry me. Frankly, being satisfied that a man who would attack and kill an unarmed woman and child is dead is so far down on the list that it doesn’t hardly warrant being there in the first place.

“You could have _died_ …”

“I didn’t,” I reassure instantly, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist and pressing my cheek to his chest. “I didn’t die.” But Moore had. Moore got his entire torso caved in because he took the hit meant for me and Mea. A man had bled to death beneath my hands today because he had followed me onto a battlefield. Whose fault is it that he’s dead? The fucking Templar, certainly, but who else? Max for ordering him to protect me? Me for being there? Me for being _here_ , on Thedas, to begin with? I look at the body carefully laid on the ground a mere foot away from me. It’s dark and I didn’t know him, didn’t ever get more than one really good look at his face, but I know that it’s Moore. I know that his body, _this body_ , is there on the ground so that I wouldn’t be and I want to shut my eyes. I want to look away.

I can’t.

Fuck.

“This time,” Max agrees hoarsely. “But what about next time?”

I can’t help but shiver at his words. Next time… I don’t want to think about a next time. I don’t want to know who else is going to end up dead to save me. Will it be Whittle next? Vale? Could the chaos of battle take Solas from me? Or Varric? Cassandra? _Max_?

The very idea makes me weak with terror, my breath coming in tight little pants.

“I’d like to promise that – if you stay with us – that I won’t do this to you again,” he whispers into my hair. “I’d like to promise that I’ll leave you in Haven with the bloody Knight-Captain and his contingents of moderately trained soldiers. I do. I just… _I need you_ ,” he admits and if I’d thought he’d been whispering before… well. Now I can barely hear him and his lips are practically touching my ear. “I need you, Avery,” a soft, quiet confession hurriedly whispered in the dark to a priest hiding behind a partition. “And I don’t just mean in my bed, though that has been a lovely bonus to this blighted mess. I need you. I need you safe but more than that, I think, I need you with me. I need…” he trails off with a frustrated growl and I recognize the noise of someone whose thoughts and meanings simply won’t translate into actual words.

It’s a stupid fucking sensation that I’m all too familiar with. It’s at this point in the conversation that I usually start shoving baked goods at people. Cookies are so much easier than words.

Since I’m lacking in cookies and cakes I simply tell him, “I understand.” And I do. Understand, that is. He needs me and I need him. I know it better than I know myself at this point. Three weeks on this world and taking away Max would be like cutting the still beating heart out of my chest. It’s not love. Not quite. Or quite possibly: _not yet_.  Regardless, I’m not sure I’d survive the loss of him.

And I mean that both figuratively and literally.

But messy emotions and probably unhealthy relationships aside, _I understand_. I do. I see it and I understand every time I look him in the eyes.

He is chaos. He is an unstoppable force contained in the flesh of a mortal man and let loose upon the world.  He would have walked away. He _could_ have walked away. He didn’t. He stayed – _they made him_ \- and now he will fight. He will fight as he so clearly knows how to and the face of the earth will be changed with his passing.

And _I_ need _that_.

Him.

The chaos and the violence and the every prickly, protective, sarcastic, and occasionally kind bit that make up Maxwell Trevelyan. The sheer force of him holds me together.  He gathers up all my broken bits and reforms me into myself.

And I… I stand at the center of him, sheltered in the eye of his storm, and I hold him together in return.

I look at him and I see that I’m the lynchpin that the hurricane revolves around. I’m the bit that holds it to the earth, that keeps it from flying apart and destroying in a thousand different directions.

“I understand,” I repeat. “I need you too.” My own matter of fact confession makes him sigh, his entire upper body slumping and curling around me. In our day to day activities I don’t really notice the difference in our heights. Max is taller than me – for god’s sake, it’s kind of hard not to be – but he’s also shorter and more slender than both Cullen and Solas. And despite the fact that he’s pretty much a category five hurricane trapped in a man’s body he has this way of… not disappearing, exactly, but of folding the sheer force of his presence away into nothing. But when he does something like this, when he tucks me into his chest and curls his body around me I remember just how much larger he is than me.

We need this. We need each other.

It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

I inhale deeply and, secure in the shelter of Max’s arms, I close my eyes against the careful, neat lines of bodies laid out in front of us.

“I’m going to give you a knife,” Max says after who knows how long. “I’ll commission one for you from Harritt once we have returned to Haven but for now I’ve got a small spare that should work out alright for you.”

I pry myself away from the warmth of his chest and stare up at him, his face lined in shadows beneath the silvery light of the larger moon. “I’m not a killer,” I remind him with a gentle statement of fact.

The corners of his lips turn up in a small smile as he runs his thumb along the line of my bottom lip, agreeing, “No, you’re not. There’s a difference between being a killer and killing a man. I am the former. Most people, given the right circumstances, can do the latter. Even you, though you would hate it,” Max replies and I stiffen slightly at his words, worry twisting in my gut until he admits wretchedly, “I’d rather you hate yourself a little than be dead, sweetheart.”

Well.

Fuck.

Just.

Fuck.

Because, seriously, how does one respond to that? There is not a fucking hallmark card for “Prioritizing Your Continued Living Over Your Emotional Wellbeing”. And if there was, would it be filed under _Thank You_ or _Condolences_? Or maybe, simply, _Thinking of You_.

“I’d rather not hate myself at all,” I hear myself say and I can’t even regret the words walking out of my mouth without permission. I’ve gone a round or two with self-hatred. It’s something I’d rather not repeat. Like, ever.

“Then if it comes to it, hate me. Just live long enough to do it.”

I narrow my eyes and stare at him, at the sharp earnestness on his face and the suddenly unhappy set to his mouth.  “I’d rather not hate you either,” I tell him. “Besides, I don’t even know how to use a knife.”

Max gives me a look that is somewhere between exasperated and _you-are-the-stupidest-person-I-have-ever-met_. “Yes you do,” he retorts instantly. “You’re just not used to thinking about it as a weapon. An _offensive_ weapon,” he corrects when I open my mouth to tell him that of course I think about it as a weapon. If I didn’t I’d have a hell of a lot more scars on my hands. “A man isn’t all that different from a ram,” he points out ruthlessly, “and you certainly know how to take those apart once they’re in front of you.”

 “But…”

Max silences me with a single finger laid over my lips. “I’m not saying that you have to – or are even going to – go out and stab someone. Bloody void, Avery, I’m just trying to give you _options_. Have you not heard what I’ve been saying to you? What do you think is going to happen to me if you end up like this?” he motions to sea of bodies that have been gathered. Even the Templars and the mages have been laid in neat rows, their arms crossed over their chests and their eyes carefully closed.

His words are a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, soaking through my hair and clothes and trickling down my spine in an icy river of horror. It’s not even the thought of my own death that makes me recoil in his arms. I can picture that easily enough. Right now, in my head, I look a lot like Moore: abdomen ripped open and chest caved in. Would he have offered me the same mercy he had given Moore? Would he have sat next to me and held my hand while I bled out into the dirt?

No, my death is too goddamn easy to picture. Easy as breathing, really.

As is what might come after.

The Templar’s death is seared upon my mind, some part of it playing the man’s death on constant repeat. A brain gif. The moment of Max’s attack immortalized inside my memory.

_There’s a difference between being a killer and killing a man. I am the former._

_Have you not heard what I’ve been saying to you?_

_I need you._

“Please don’t make me your conscience,” I whisper, fingers picking nervously at the edges of his coat.

Max lets out a huff that might just be a laugh and curls his hand tighter over the slight curve of my hip, pulling me closer. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs against my forehead, his lips brushing across my skin in delicate, barely there kisses. “I already have a conscience entirely of my own. It is far too ruthless to have ever been a part of you.”

I want to protest, to tell him that I definitely can be ruthless. I really do. Except I’ve spent the last however many minutes protesting self-defense training because I don’t want to kill anyone. Even if they’re trying to kill me.

Jesus _motherfucking_ Christ.

I am not coherent enough for this. I need more brain power and a psychiatrist. And possibly a priest.

Because of course, _of course_ , I’m willing to act in defense of my own life. I’ve taken classes. I carry – carried – pepper spray. Fuck, I’ve _used_ pepper spray.

I just…

In the back of my head there’s this thought, this _belief,_ that if I do this. If I defend myself, if I  - Gandhi forbid – kill a man then I am accepting that this is real. I’m giving up the belief that I’m just going to wake up from this between one moment and the next and it’ll be nothing but a fantastic, amazing, horrifying, heartbreaking, _wonderful_ dream fading in my memory as I stare up at a hospital ceiling. Or at the wreckage of my car.

But, as today has so aptly illustrated in a way that a fight with a demon – a demon, for fuck’s sake! – simply couldn’t, this is a world at war. And war here is personal. It is up close and brutal in a way that, I suspect, Earth has mostly left behind in the past century and vast improvement of guns and bombs.  And I’m _living it_ up close and personal. Real or not, it is right here with me. With blood on my hands and splattered across my face. And if I ignore it, if I treat it like a dream then I’m going to end dead.

If this is a dream do I wake up if I die? Or is the dream a reflection of my physical state? If I die here am I dead for good?

Do I care enough to find out?

No. No I abso-fucking-lutely do not.

Dreamland or not, I like living thank you very much.

“Okay,” I whisper into his leathers. “Alright. I’ll do it. Expand my options, I mean. I’d still rather not kill anyone.”

Max presses another kiss to my forehead and I feel the relief of it straight down to my soul. “I know, sweetheart.” His fingers on my chin are gentle as he nudges my head back until we are face to face, the warm humidity of our shared breath feathering across our skin. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to leave you in the questionable safety of Haven. I’m too much of a selfish bastard for that. But I can promise you this: so long as I am able, so long as there is breath in my body, never doubt that I will do my best to keep you safe. That I will _kill_ to keep you safe – again and again and again.” His lips brush against mine in a brief kiss, chaste and feather-light, that I feel like a brand presses into my bones. The weight of his promise is a warm, heady thing.

I sigh, clinging to him. “You’re a good man.”

Max presses one, two, three more kisses to my mouth and then one more to the center of my forehead before he steps back. “No, I’m not,” he disagrees with a dark, self-deprecating twist of his mouth. “But I could be good to you, I think.”

“You already are,” I murmur but the only answer I get is a gentle kiss pressed to the center of my shaking hand.

 

* * *

 

“Maker’s breath, _there_ you are! I was just about to send out a search party,” Varric’s voice is a little too loud, a little too relieved, and it instantly rouses me from where I’d been half asleep leaning against Max’s arm as we walked – stumbled – back to camp.  Max evidently thinks so too because I haven’t done much more than blink sleepily at Varric’s exhaustion blurred form before I suddenly find myself leaning against Max’s back instead of his side. I don’t need to see his other hand to realize that he’s probably gone for a knife. “Easy,” Varric’s voice says from beyond him. “It’s nothing like that,” he reassures but Max doesn’t relax. I can hear Varric sigh, his noise of exasperation almost as loud as Cassandra’s trademarked one of disgust. “One of the children, _Triston_ ,” he corrects himself, stressing the name slightly, “woke up. Night terrors. No one can get him to calm down. I was hoping Avery… she’s the only one he’s responded to…”

The use of my name has me poking my head out from behind Max’s back before the rest of his message sinks all the way in, taking in the rather frazzled looking dwarf. He’s down to just his half done up shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled to nearly his elbows despite the cold, with his ginger hair escaping the neat queue that not even battle had ruffled in long, gleaming strands.

“Show me,” I instruct, pausing to clear my throat when the words come out as nothing more than a rasp. Christ in a tutu, I need a drink. My immortal soul for a cup of tea. Preferably one with lots of honey. Though my stomach remains blessedly calm the rest of the Magical Minty Potion of Awesome has definitely worn off. I feel like I’ve gargled with broken glass and acid.

Max’s grip tightens on my hand. “Sweetheart, you’re exhausted,” he murmurs, too paranoid or too much of a gentleman to state outright that it was only his need to keep at least one hand free for a weapon that had kept him from carrying me bridal style back to camp. And me from passing out, because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I would have done as soon as I didn’t have to move my feet in some semblance of coordination.

“Triston is a three year old boy who watched his mother burn to death today,” I tell him when he doesn’t let go of my hand. “Sleep can wait.”

Max gives me a long, searching look. “I’m going to check in with Vale. Don’t let her fall over,” he’s still looking at me but his words are for Varric. “Her Restorative’s worn off and she’s crashing.”

Varric makes a disturbed sort of noise that sounds vaguely like _eurgh_ and captures one of my arms as I flail about with about as much grace and steadiness as a newborn giraffe.  “That’s when I usually start drinking again,” he confides blandly.

“You’re not nearly the drunk that you make everyone think you are,” I note as he steers me towards the center of the camp. It’s not until I’ve unsteadily picked my way around several bedrolls that I realize that the men on the ground, huddled in groups around the flickering light of carefully fed flames, are the Inquisition’s soldiers. Those that aren’t on guard duty, that is. I stop mid-step, staring blearily from the men on the ground to the line of canvas tents at the center of the clearing.

Varric follows my gaze. “After you and Trevelyan gave up your tent for the kids, the rest gave up theirs to the refugees,” he explains. “They’ve had a rough day and they’re going to have to rebuild everything. It certainly won’t kill us to sleep out in the open for a night or two.”

“That’s very thoughtful of them,” I murmur as I skirt the edge of another fire, not missing the way that half of the soldiers blink into consciousness at our passing and track our movements with tired eyes while they clutch at their weapons until they determine that neither Varric nor I are an attacking threat. The men on the ground are tired, bone weary and sore, but even in their sleep they are watchful in that way of faithful dogs sleeping across the doorway.

It’s something that those in the tents appreciate. I can feel it buried beneath the flashes of grief and terror and anger, an overwhelming surge of relief. Relief for some type of roof over their head, relief that their stomachs are not empty, relief that there is something – someone – between them and all the dangerous things that suddenly go bump in the night.

“They’re good men and women,” Varric agrees. “And I’m not a drunk. I’m a functioning alcoholic: very rarely incapacitated – wouldn’t be much good with Bianca if I was, would I? – but usually sporting a nice buzz.”

The complete ease with which he pronounces his own condition is enough to twist my heart and shred into approximately fifty million pieces. Jesus, I want to give him a hug. I would, too, if I didn’t think that an attempt to do so right now would result in me tumbling face first into a fire or something equally disastrous.

“Why?” I ask and then promptly slap a hand over my mouth in horror. “Shit. Fuck. Jesus, I’m sorry. So sorry. That’s a horribly personal question. Just ignore me.”

Varric laughs quietly, a horrible, resigned sound that is like nails running down a chalkboard to my ears. “Nah, it’s okay. I don’t mind.” He sighs quietly and stops us at the edge of the larger circle of firelight, the line of tents waiting just beyond it and turns to face me, careful to keep a hold of both of my hands so that I don’t fall or something equally ridiculous when he moves away. I’d like to say that all of his and Max’s precautions aren’t necessary but I’m pretty sure that they absolutely are. “When you’ve seen the shit that I’ve seen, you’ve got to dull the edges of the world or you won’t be able to make it through the day without screaming.”

I can’t help it. I squeeze the thick callused fingers that are threaded through my own and, with shaking limbs, raise them to my lips. “I am sorry the world has treated you so badly,” I murmur, ghosting a soft kiss across the knuckles of one hand and then the other.

Varric shrugs off my sympathy. “It has treated others far worse.”

And just like that I remember the devastated little child, my head turning like a bloodhound who’s caught the scent, to where the elderly elven man – Haleir, or something like that – was sitting at the front of the tent, eyes trained on the shadows that slowly solidified into a thin limbed little boy, curled in on himself and gasping helplessly as he tried to hide himself in the dirt.

“Oh, Triston,” I whisper and when my legs simply stop working after three steps I let myself drop to my knees, shuffling forward until I’m close enough to lay a hand on the poor kid, though I don’t touch him yet. “Triston?” I call gently, trying to get his attention. “Baby, can you look at me?” A broken, hysterical sob breaks free of his frantic hyperventilating but I don’t know if that’s an attempt at response or if his attempts – and failures – to get a deep breath are driving him into further hysterics.

Probably the latter.

Panic attacks are a bitch.

I imagine they’re even worse when you’re only three.

Very, very, _very_ carefully I gather him into my arms, moving slowly and trying to broadcast each touch before I make so as to not panic him further, soft words of reassurance falling from my lips. Or at least I think they’re reassuring. Maybe. Hopefully. I’m not actually sure what I’m saying until I’ve got him folded in my lap, his back pressed to my chest and the width of my hand spanning his tiny chest. “Breathe with me, baby,” I encourage him, murmuring calmly in his ear. “Breathe in now,” I inhale slowly, deeply, exaggerating my breath so that he can feel it through the layers of my coat and the spare shirt we’d stolen – er, borrowed – from Whittle to replace the ash and blood stained clothes he’d been wearing. “Now out. In, baby. Good. Now out again. Shh, you’re doing so well Triston. You’re doing so good for me. Breathe in again. Now exhale…”

We continue on for minutes without count, the pair of us trembling like we’ve just taken a dip in Haven’s lake as I gently restrain him and coach him through his breathing.

Eventually he takes one great, gasping breath, and promptly bursts into tears. “Shh, baby, I’m right here,” I whisper against his head as I gather him to my chest. He nuzzles with the instincts of the young, burying his face in the space between my boobs and clutches at my coat so tightly that I wouldn’t be surprised if the cloth tore. “You’re safe now. You and Tabby are safe. I promise. I promise, baby, you’re safe.”

The poor boy just cries harder and I wrap my arms around him, tucking my chin over the messy mop of his hair. For a moment I just rock him, humming wordlessly but eventually my mind catches the notes coming out of my mouth and I can’t stop the words from following. It’s not singing, not really, my voice feeling too wrecked for that but I don’t know if I could stop even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. I want to pass this along, sing this song as Mama B sang it to me when I woke frightened and disorientated after she had brought me into her home.

“ _Come stop your crying, it will be alright,”_ I croon hoarsely as I rock him back and forth, back and forth, my fingers rubbing gently at his back. “ _Just take my hand, hold it tight. I will protect you from all around you. I will be here don’t you cry.”_

“Here.” Max’s voice is a quiet interruption, the rumble of his voice slotting into the emptiness left by my own raspy attempts at music. The heavy ceramic is warm against my lips and I open them, letting Max tip tea carefully into my mouth. It is floral based, the notes of lavender and something vaguely rose like almost enough to override the astringent, slimy quality of the elfroot that had no doubt been muddied at the bottom of the mug before the tea had been poured in, and thick with honey. I swallow slowly, letting it soothe the brunt of pain in my throat.

“Thank you,” I mouth when he lowers the mug and Max offers me a small smile, dropping to a crouch off to the side. I press a kiss to the top of Triston’s head. “Shhh,” I soothe as he whimpers still, the front of my coat soaked with his tears. “ _For one so small, you seem so strong_ ,” I pick up the song where I left off, my voice steadier and stronger thanks to the tea. “ _My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm. This bond between us can’t be broken. I will be here, don’t you cry. Cause you’ll be in my heart. Yes, you’ll be in my heart. From this day on, now and forever more. You’ll  be in my heart, no matter what they say. You’ll be in my heart, always.”_

I’m not about to score a four chair turn on The Voice but that doesn’t matter. I’m not sure if it’s the words or the raspy voice or the gentle, constant motion but Triston is slowly calming down, the strength of his sobs dying down to quiet whimpers as I make my way through the rest of the song. When I finish I pause just long enough to take another swig of tea before launching into another song, desperately hoping that the Beatles will continue Phil Collins work and calm the poor little duckling down enough for him to sleep – _peacefully_.

“ _Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,”_ I sing softly, throwing in do-do-do-dos as appropriate. “ _And I say it’s all right. Little darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter. Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here. Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say it’s all right._ ” Beneath my cheek Triston slowly relaxes, tension easing from his body until he’s slack in my arms, only the death grip on my coat and the occasional, hitching little sob making me think that he’s still awake. 

In my arms, Triston stirs and I take a deep, shaking breath. Varric and Solas have joined our little party and they are listening with blatant (Varric) and carefully disguised (Solas) interest. Haleir is still crouched over in the entrance to the tent, though he’s rearranged himself into a more comfortable position and is watching me with ill-disguised fascination.

I sigh. Part of me wants to shoo them away, to lay down and curl up with this little boy and whisper lyrics from a world he’ll never see in his ear with the hope that it’ll make things even the tiniest bit better. But I don’t. If for no other reason than I’ve given up pretending that if I lay down I’ll be able to get up without having to sleep at least a half dozen hours first.

For a minute I just sit there with my cheek pressed to the top of his head. It’s a perfect, crystalline sort of moment, like I’m viewing everything through a magnifying glass and everything is abundantly obvious. “ _Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,”_ I murmur beneath the daze inflicted by the rush of emotions swamping over my brain. “ _Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. How do you measure, measure a year?”_ I’m back to barely whispering the lyrics, my eyes half shut as I float along on the river of sensation. Fear and anger and pain, oh yes, but relief too and hope. The fact that there’s still hope sparkling in these eddies is enough to make my eyes sting.

When I finish, I nearly move right into the next song out of habit but manage to swallow back the lyrics before they fall off my lips.

Carefully, and with more than a little help from Max, I get an unconscious Triston back into the tent and  tuck him into the nest of scratchy woolen blankets and pilfered furs. Thinking of the soldiers lying wrapped in coats and cloaks on the ground outside I wonder how many of them sacrificed their bedrolls for this and not just their tents. Most of them, probably. I should make them a cake.

Softly, I press a kiss to Triston’s head. “Sleep well, baby,” I whisper. “You’re safe. I promise.”

Knowing that it absolutely isn’t going to be as simple as that but still holding out hope that the kid will get to sleep through the night I duck back out of the tent and promptly stumble to my knees. Max’s grip is, once again, the only thing that keeps me from falling flat on my face.

I sigh.

I’m really just ready to go to bed and sleep for a week.

Yeah.

That sounds pretty good.

Something in the air, a pressure moving from my chest to the center of my throat makes me look up and I blink owlishly at the sight that greets my eyes. There’s more of them now. People gathered around the tents, that is. It’s not just Max and Varric and Solas and our baby-minder elf. At least half of the refugees are there, staring at me like I’m the second coming of Christ, and a handful of soldiers are mixed in with them.

One of them is holding something that looks suspiciously like small guitar in my direction.

I stare at it.

They shuffle forward a few steps.

“But…” I look up at everyone, more than a little panicked. “I haven’t played in years!”

And I’m tired. So fucking tired. Let’s not forget that.

“Please,” the solider says simply. “Just a few songs.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit on a fucking stick.

It is not unlike the moment when I had looked into Max’s face as we stood across from the blacksmith’s, the moment when I’d realized just how much he needed me to come to the Hinterlands with him. It feels like that moment when I realized that _I need you_ meant _I have to keep you safe_ and _I can’t leave you behind_ and _I don’t think I can do this without you there, holding me together._

I look at the soldier in front of me and I can hear more than the words coming out of his mouth. He’s not just asking for a song. He’s – _they’re_ , because everyone else is looking at me too: refugees and soldiers who I don’t know by name, Vale and Whittle both standing in the shadows at the back, Varric watching me carefully, like he’s trying to figure something else, and Solas observing the whole thing with the air of a man watching a five car pileup that he can see coming but is powerless to stop – asking for something else. They’re asking for understanding. They’re asking me to reach inside their chests and rip out all the things that they can’t say, all the things that they might never be able to say.

They can feel it too: guilt and anger, fear and disgust, relief and sorrow and they want – they _need_ \- me to pull it out of them. Need me to tease it out into the moonlight so that they can breathe again.

“Avery…” Max growls in warning as my fingers wrap around the neck of the guitar like thing.

“Just a few songs,” I murmur, still staring at all of them. “They need just a few.”

Max swears. Impressively. “Three,” he finally grits out. “You can sing three and then you are _getting some sleep_.”

I blink and look at him, at the dirty ice of his eyes staring back at me out of the flickering shadows and I nod my head. “Three,” I agree breathlessly.

They find me a stool – or a stump, whatever – and I sit on it, fingers running across strings in a daze, plucking at notes to get a feel for it. I hadn’t been lying. It’s been years since I’ve done much more than pluck at strings while deep in thought but the muscle memory is still there, the feel of strings beneath my fingers still familiar.  It’s probably tuned correctly for a whatever-it-is but I pluck at the strings and twist carefully at the tuners until it sounds more the guitar I would have played back on Earth.

Everyone watches, the night suddenly so quiet and still that the pop of heated sap is ear bustlingly loud against the backdrop of their anticipation.

“Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath, a prayer if there ever was one, and I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

The notes come slowly at first, halting and unsure as my fingers pull something from the depths of my memory and play it for them. For me, so I know what to sing. If I wasn’t so lost in this, so focused, I would have laughed. Or smiled, at least, at the song choice, one no doubt selected by what remains of my hormone and angst ridden teenage self.

Still, it’s appropriate and it won’t be full of things they won’t understand.

“ _In this farewell, there’s no blood, there’s no alibi. ‘Cause I’ve drawn regret from the truth of a thousand lies. So let mercy come and wash away what I’ve done_ … _”_

The guilt is there, bubbling beneath their skin, begging to be acknowledged. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, sons, and daughters. Friends and neighbors. Guilt for blood they might have shed, guilt for blood they failed to save. The sad, inescapable knowledge that the bloodshed is far from over, that this is just a pause, an indrawn breath between one moment and the next.

“ _For what I’ve done, I start again, and whatever pain may come. Today this ends, I’m forgiving what I’ve done. I’ll face myself to cross out what I’ve become,”_ I sing, daring to open my eyes and look to where they’re staring back at me.  I swallow, caught in their gaze, in the understanding reflected back at me, and immediately launch into another song.

The strains are familiar, one of the first songs I ever learned, taught beneath Mama B’s fingers and sung late into a summer’s night. Perhaps _Carry On My Wayward Son_ would have been more appropriate, full of resignation and determination in equal measures, lyrics that acknowledge the pain and yet push, propelling you forward.

That’s not what I see though, so that’s not what I sing, the soft croon of “… _dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind…”_ is a relief, the acknowledged finality and inescapability of our own mortality another ton of bricks dumped onto the delicate structure of my ribcage. The pressure of it is enough pull at my voice, to bring it down to little more than artfully spoken words, the ability to cry any notes stolen by my inability to take a breath without feeling like my chest is being torn apart.

I sing of death and love and a hanging tree, of dying rather than living and how that might be the better outcome when living means living without. I sit beneath their gazes and sing them songs of Earth. I sing and feel the weight of my own loss weighing down on me while the weight of theirs rips me open just as surely as the maul had ripped Moore open.

“…ough. _Enough_ ,” Max begs, his thumbs sweeping across my cheekbones. I’m crying. There are tears streaming down my face and I didn’t even realize until I felt the wetness of them against Max’s skin.

“One more,” I hear myself whisper, unable to bring myself to look away from the tear stained faces that stare back at me. “Just one more.”

“No, sweetheart, you promised three, you…”

“Let her finish,” Solas’ voice is little more than a rumble, caught somewhere between a growl and the distant roll of thunder. “Let her finish,” he whispers urgently, catching Max’s hand with one of his own as the assassin reaches for the instrument nestled in my arms. “She will not be able to break free otherwise.”

“What is…” Max snarls, rounding on the apostate, but free of Max’s touch my fingers are moving again, plucking out notes one by one by one. The potion has worn off. The tea has worn off. My throat feels shredded and raw, making the words that come out breathless and hoarse.

“ _All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces. Bright and early for their daily races, going nowhere, going nowhere,”_ each word is another drop in my chest, another splash of tears streaming down my cheeks until even my fingers burn. “ _… And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had…”_ Someone inhales sharply and for a moment I feel fingers brush against my arm, my hair, the curve of my brow, but I can’t stop. Everything is heavy and dulled, almost hazy, as if I am watching the world swim by from beneath the give and take of a moving tide. “… _I find it hard to tell you cause I find it hard to take when people run in circles, it’s a very, very mad world...”_

 _“_ Maker’s breath, she’s…”

“Don’t.” A breath. A warning. Fingers through my hair.

“… _I find it hard to tell you cause I find it hard to take when people run in circles, it’s a very, very mad world…”_

The last word is the metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back as it falls my lip, the single pebble that finally proves too much for my ribs to handle and everything, _everything_ goes crashing through.

It’s like being hit by a speeding train.

Like being caught in the whirl of water rushing down a recently unclogged drain.

Like…

The words escape me, bubbling up to some nebulous surface and disappearing without thought or concern.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t see.

I can’t feel.

No.

I feel.

It’s just…

Just…

I feel, I just feel… distantly. As if I’ve slipped my skin, freed myself from the irritant confines of mere muscle and flesh, and yet still experience every touch, every brush against me as they unwind my fingers from the neck of the instrument, as they take it from my arms, as they steady the weakness of my flesh.

“Do not let go of her,” a rumble orders, and I turn my face towards the sound like a flower searching for the sun.

“We need somewhere…”

“…this way. It’s been prepared for…”

“…lk to her. Don’t let her drift.”

“What is…”

“…down things here.”

“…alright?”

“…ope so.”

“…me, sweetheart.”

There’s a pressure against the center of my head. Or what I think might be the center of my head. It’s hard to tell. It feels good though. Soft. Pressing.

 _Safe_.

That’s right.

Safe.

“…eathe!”

The flesh inhales sharply, pulling air in between its teeth so hard that it whistles, and something bright and metallic explodes in its mouth.

“..urry.”

Everything fades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obligated to note that while music will definitely play a part in this fic, the occasions where multiple songs get quoted in part over the course of a chapter will not be numerous. So if that sort of thing bugs you, rest easy ;)
> 
> Songs sung/quoted/alluded to being sung:  
>  _You'll Be In My Heart_ , Phil Collins  
>  _Here Comes the Sun_ , the Beatles  
>  _Seasons of Love_ , RENT  
>  _What I've Done_ , Linkin Park  
>  _Dust in the Wind_ , Kansas  
>  _Hanging Tree_ , Mockingjay Part 1  
>  _Mad World_ , Gary Jules
> 
> Next chapter is titled _Something Else Entirely_ and I have been waiting a ridiculously long time to get to it. (Would you believe that orginally I thought I'd get there somewhere around chapter 8 or 10? Hahahaha...) but I suspect it won't be out as quick as this one was.


	21. Something Else Entirely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. This. Chapter. 
> 
> This chapter has given me fits. FITS. 
> 
> I got most of it written. I thought. And then my tiny people caught The Head Cold of Doom from the neighbor, which they then kindly shared with me. After which I got a secondary infection and spent a weekend fevered and delirious on the couch...  
> Good news though, I filled an entire singe subject notebook with ideas for (mostly) this fic. And well, I say "filled" but really I'm finding that the content is approximately 70% usuable material, 20% fevered ramblings, and 10% transcriptions of the dialogue from _Fast Five_ and the 1959 version of _Journey to the Center of the Earth_.  
> ... After surving that and giving my Muse two weeks in a metaphorical blanket fort I finally came back to this fic and... didn't like what I'd written. At all. So I murdered 5k innocent words and started over. 
> 
> So. Thank you for your patience and continued support!  
> 

When I was thirteen I had the dubious honor of coming down with pneumonia and bronchitis at the same time. I spent nearly a week in bed delirious, feverish, struggling to breathe, coughing up brightly colored phlegm, and drugged out of my goddamn mind. Mama B spent the entire time camped out on a blow up mattress in the corner of my room and kept my favorite Disney movies playing on a loop and the humidifier running.  I have never been so fucking miserable in my entire life.

Waking up feels a bit like that. Like I’ve got an elephant perched on my chest. Like my own body is drowning me and there’s shit that I can do about it. Like my entire body has been boiled, frozen, boiled again and then used as a piñata by a horde of angry major league baseball players.

I groan.

Fuck, just shoot me and be done with it.

“There you are _da’lath’in_ ,” Solas breathes, his voice the rumble of a distant avalanche. “Welcome back, _fenorain._ Open those eyes of yours and let us see you.”

Behind me something heaves and something tightens around my shoulders and waist. “Bloody void, sweetheart, don’t do _that_ ,” Max gasps against the back of my head, his lips pressing kisses there between words.  Somewhere off to the side Varric lets out something that could be either a curse or a prayer. Or maybe both. Probably both. This seems like a scenario for both.

I inhale deeply and, _Jesus_ , that hurts.

“Ugh,” I groan pathetically and pry my eyes open.

It takes a minute or two but eventually the room swims into focus. We’re in a little hut of some kind, weathered wooden boards surrounding us on all sides. A shed, possibly? I don’t see any windows and there isn’t a fireplace or any other visible way to heat the small area. As is I’m shivering and shaking like a newborn giraffe and the entire place is lit by a flare of flickering blue flames hovering just above the packed dirt floor next to Solas. His magic, I presume.

“What happened?” I ask, blinking until I can get the multiple Solas’ dancing around in front of my eyes to consolidate into one form.  And then I blink again, just to be sure. He’s down on his knees between the v of my legs – between the v of Max’s legs as well, which probably explains why it feels like the wall behind me is moving – with one of his hands tangled with both of mine until I can’t quite figure out if I’m holding on to him or if he’s holding on to me. A bit of both, probably and it makes something hurt in the center of my chest to see the crimson smeared and beading across his flesh. “And – not that I’m complaining – but why does everyone have a hand under my shirt?”

Because that’s where Solas’ other hand is: up the front of my shirt and pressed into the skin just below the curve of my breasts, thumb gently stroking along the line of a rib, and elegant fingers splayed upwards between the ladies.  Max, because now that my brain is feeling slightly less scrambled, that is definitely Max behind me, has got one arm wrapped around my chest, the sinewy  strength of his forearm pressing across the jut of my collarbone and the hint of my cleavage and the other arm wrapped around my waist, the sprawl of his hand spanning the flesh of my hip. Even Varric has got a hand on me, pressed to the softness of my lower belly while he runs the callused, blunt tipped fingers of his other hand up and down my arm.

“You scared the shit out of us, that’s what you did,” Varric mutters, pale faced and looking very much like he would like to drown himself in a bottle of alcohol. Or a whole fucking vat of it.

“You got overwhelmed and tried to leave,” Solas explains gently, his words a great deal calmer than Varric’s even if he does have a death grip on my hands.

“…what?” I can’t imagine trying to leave. Besides not really wanting to leave this group of people, where the fuck do they suppose I’d go? I’d probably be Templar fodder in less than a dozen yards.

“Not physically,” Max says from behind me, obviously sensing my confusion. “Your body was still here. It was just…”

“…empty,” Varric mutters, and now he does go for the flask in his coat, fumbling it open with one hand and promptly tossing back several swallows of it. “Solas said we had to touch you. Had to talk to you. Remind you that you had skin. That you had a body. Shit.” He takes another drink.

“I… what?” I look at the apostate and he stares back, quicksilver eyes glowing in the blue light. It’s beautiful and under different circumstances I’d also find it more than a little terrifying but it’s hard to be terrified of someone who is holding on to your hands like he expects you to pop out of existence the moment he lets go.

“I… am reasonably certain that I know what happened,” Solas begins after a moment, obviously picking his words with care. “But first, I need you to tell me what happened to you in the Fade. Before you arrived on Thedas,” he clarifies quickly.

“I already told…”

No,” he interrupts. “I need to hear everything – everything that you left out because you were protecting your own world or you thought might make you sound crazy. I need to know everything from how you got there up to the moment that you fell out of the rift.” He pauses. “I will make Varric and Max leave if that will make it easier for you.”

“The fuck you will,” Max growls instantly even as Varric holds up his hand – and flask – in protest saying, “Now hold up there, Chuckles…”

“They can stay,” I tell Solas seriously. “I want them to stay.”

He gives me a long searching look and then nods. Just once. “Alright, _da’lath’in_ , they can stay.”

I swallow, suddenly nervous.

“I don’t… I don’t know how I got here,” I begin honestly. “Mama B – that’s my adoptive mom -  and I were on our way home from my aunt and uncle’s Christmas party. Um, Christmas is a winter holiday, celebrated near the solstice. For a lot of people it’s about Jesus who… you know what, you really… understanding Christianity isn’t important to this story. So, um, Christmas. It’s just a winter holiday with decorations and songs and we exchange gifts with our loved ones…”

“…sounds like Saturnalia,” Varric grunts as he passes a small leather bundle to Solas. Distantly some part of me puts _Saturnalia_ on my list of things to ask about.

“… so we were on our way home from the Christmas party. It was dark and rainy – it doesn’t really get cold enough where we live for snow – and we were making plans for what we wanted to do when we got home. And then…” I stare down at where Solas has unwrapped his hand from mine and is gently unclenching my fingers so that my hands are palm up before him. The pads of my fingers are blistered and in some places cut and bleeding, blood sluggishly beading up and dripping off my hands.  “Oh,” I breathe. And this, kids, is why you don’t play a string instrument for half an hour straight, without a pick or even a break, after you haven’t really touched an instrument in years.

Fuck, but that stings.

“Don’t worry, Plucky, Chuckles will fix you right up,” Varric pats me sympathetically on the leg.

Solas looks up from where he is gently massaging the tendons of my hand, willing them to relax. “Continue.” It’s said gently but it’s also not exactly a suggestion.

“Then…” I think of that night, of the way the rain pounded on the roof of the car, of the _whip-whip-whip_ of the windshield wipers, of Nat King Cole crooning in the background. “… I think we got in an accident of some sort. We had to have because the next thing I remember is opening my eyes in the Fade. Except I didn’t know where I was, just that the world seemed to have lost most of its color and that I was still strapped into my seat and hanging upside down. Mama B was gone. I don’t… I don’t know what happened to her,” I whisper, voice breaking, letting myself think about it, for just a second.

 Oh, god. We’d gotten in a car accident and I’d lost my mom. I’d been thrown through a magical dreamland to another world and Mama B… was she back home? Did she get thrown out into the Fade? Did she end up in some other world out there? Is she even alive?

Something high pitched and feral twists in my chest and claws out of my throat and my fingers spasm in Solas’ hold.

“Oh god, I don’t know what happened to my mom,” I manage to gasp through the sudden tightness in my chest and the burning flood of tears streaming down my cheeks. “I don’t know what happened to my mom…”

Behind me Max makes a noise like a wounded animal, something that I can barely hear over the rushing in my ears, and tightens his arms around me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers as I fall apart, great gasping sobs ripping their way out of my chest until I feel bloodied and raw. “I’m so sorry.”

So am I.

Was the accident my fault? Did I get too distracted by the rain or the Christmas music or the prospect of an impending cookie induced coma? Did I accidentally kill my mom?

Oh, god.

That’s a thought I never wanted to have. Should have left that one buried firmly in the deep seething pit of _I’m Not Thinking About This Until Later_ until, well, later. And by later I mean never. Never fucking ever.

I feel myself go limp in Max’s arms, hunching in on myself until I’ve practically got my head in Solas’ hands despite Max’s hold on me, my sobs turning into a sharp hysterical giggle that makes my ears hurt and my throat burn and the edges of my vision go insubstantial and yellow and…

“Avery, look at me!” The bark of Solas’ voice jerks me up out of the cyclone of _fearpanicguilt_ currently tearing a hole in my chest and my eyes flick up to his as if dragged. “I need you to focus. Right now, _da’lath’in_. Tell me four things that you see.”

I blink at that, the request – no, order, because I’m lying to myself like a lying liar who lies if I think it is anything besides an order that absolutely must be carried out or god help me – throwing me a little. Enough that I can drag another painful breath into my lungs.

“Uh… your eyes,” I say, because that’s the easy one. Obviously. They’re really very lovely, especially with the weird blue flame bringing out the various pearlescent hues hidden in the quicksilver irises. At Max’s urging I take another deep breath.” There’s… there’s a hook. On the wall.” I suck in another breath, “Varric’s flask. Um. Blue fire.”

“Good,” Solas murmurs, rubbing his fingers gently along my hand. “Good. Now tell me three things that you feel.”

_Fur_ , my mind says instantly, so instantly that I nearly bite my tongue in half to keep the word in my mouth. There isn’t any fur here. None. Zilch. Nada.

I look down at Solas’ hands just to be sure.

_See_? I tell myself. _No fur!_

I wiggle my fingers anyway. No fur.

The realization is almost disappointing. Maybe. Kind of. Definitely.

Fuck, I’m not even making sense in my own head any more.

Of course, that’s probably nothing new.

I bite back the hysteria that bubbles up my throat and take another deep, deliberate breath instead.

“Your hands,” I tell him. “Max’s…” _everything_ “…mouth.” The mouth in question presses a kiss to the back of my head. “Varric’s hand.” I blink and look down at where the dwarf has a death grip on my thigh. His knuckles are white. I’m probably going to have bruises there. But it’s nice. It’s… comforting. Like an anchor that’s weighing me down.

“Good,”Solas repeats calmly. “Two things that you smell.”

“Woodsmoke,” I say instantly. “Mint,” I add after a moment of thought. 

“Good. Now, one thing that you can taste.”

I blink. Taste? Does spit count? I focus on my mouth. What do I taste?

“Blood,” I finally answer after a moment. Old blood, if I’m being strictly honest. Not bright and coppery but dull and like iron.

Varric makes a disgusted noise that could rival Cassandra’s and wordlessly presses his flask to my lips in clear instruction. Obedient, I swallow.

Which doesn’t go nearly as pleasantly as it sounds.

“Jesus fuck me with a spoon,” I sputter, blinking back the sudden rush of tears. “What the fuck is that?" Whatever it is, Varric could dissolve a battery with that. Shit. My tongue feels funny. Like I’ve stuck it in an electrical socket and whatever I just drank is sitting like fire in my gut. There is, I think, a distinct possibility that my esophagus has been liquefied.

Varric snorts. “It’s… I don’t even know what it is. It’s the strongest stuff I could get my hands on.” He says that like it’s important and I give him a rather blank stare in return.  “No use in bringing the good stuff when you’re just as likely to be dumping on a wound as you are to be drinking it, right?”

Oh.

Well. Yeah. That makes sense.

It also sounds a bit like you’re doomed to pain in either scenario but, hey, a little pain isn’t always a bad thing.

I stick my tongue in and out of my mouth a few times, rubbing it against the underside of my teeth in an effort to just scrape the memory of the drink off of it. It doesn’t work. Bugger.

Max makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a relieved sob – or maybe a stifled bark of laughter – against my neck. Or both. Both is a distinct possibility. I feel a bit like that myself, like I’m going to simultaneously going to break into tears again because _oh my god, where is my mom?!?!_  and like I’m simply going to lean over and laugh and laugh and laugh while propped up against Varric’s shoulder. Because here I am. Bleeding. Mourning. Probably at least a little crazy. On an alien world. A _war torn_ alien world. With absolutely no fucking idea what is going on.

_And I’m asking why my new dwarf friend doesn’t have the good booze in his hip flask_.

Christ on a pogo stick, my priorities are fucked.

Varric’s lips twitch and there’s another huff of noise against my neck.

I sigh. “I said all that out loud, didn’t I?” I have got to stop doing that. Seriously. It’s just embarrassing at this point.

A gentle pressure on my hands brings my attention back to where Solas is kneeling in front of me, a look on his face that I can’t quite decipher.  Beneath the hum and the burn of Varric’s only-slightly-better-than-rubbing-alcohol and the iron taste of blood my mouth tastes of rain. “Do not worry, _da’lath’in_ , your distraction is… reassuring.”

“Reassuring?” Max sounds about as convinced as I feel.

“She is in the here and now. She is reacting to things happening to her body. She is asking questions,” Solas explains.  “And…” he hesitates, his eyes flickering to Varric, “… I suspect she is reacting as she is simply because Varric needs her to.”

I blink.

“…huh?”

Oh, there you go Avery. Brilliant. So fucking concise and intelligent.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Max growls over the top of my head, praise be to the Flying Spaghetti Monster. At least one off us still has a functioning brain.

“The rest of her tale first, please,” Solas requests. Except it’s not really a request. Oh, it’s politely phrased and his voice is deceptively calm and relaxing but it’s an order and absolutely unmistakable as anything else, delivered with an ease that only comes with long practice and positive results.

Before Max and Varric can protest – and they will, if I give them half a second to, I can _feel_ it – I open my mouth and let words trip out with all the grace of a drunken ostrich.

I tell them all about climbing out of the broken car, of the figure that had waited and taunted me with my loss of Mama B. I tell them all about the walking: the way my heels had half sunk into the insubstantial ground, the way I hadn’t gotten tired, the way I had picked my directions at random, and the sheer distance I must have covered. I’ll never know for certain, having lacked any sort of time telling device or even muscle fatigue to gauge the passing hours by, but I’m convinced that I walked for days.

I talk about the weird ass dream that I’d had. About the strange might-have-been existence I had found myself living. About the frightening thing Mama B had turned into and about the light that had consumed me.

I tell them about waking back up and about how I had kept walking.

“The Fade,” I remark with a slightly bitter laugh, “is a very boring place.” And Varric chokes on his own spit, gasping and wheezing at my audacity.

I tell them about finding the rift, about how curious I felt about this out of the norm fixture of green light. I talk about hearing Cassandra’s voice.

I tell them every little detail I can think of, talking until my voice is hoarse and my throat is scratchy. So scratchy that I accept another sip of Varric’s disinfectant. An action that I regret immediately. Fuck.

“Well, I definitely would have preferred your version of the Fade,” Max says after a long pause in which the only sound is my sputtering coughs. “Mine was more of a steep volcanic landscape with a never ending pack of giant spiders chasing me.”

Varric gives him a look I can’t quite interpret, “I thought you couldn’t remember what happened.”

Behind me, Max shrugs. “I can’t. Not a single bloody thing about what happened after I woke up the day of Conclave. Not how I got into the Fade or what happened while I was there. But I remember the spiders. I remember being hunted like a fucking animal. I remember falling.”

I can’t grab for Max like I want to, can’t offer him the comfort of my grip, because Solas still has my hands trapped in his own so I just lean back more, trying to press myself even closer to him. _I am here_ , I say silently in my head. _I am here. You are here with me_.

Max sighs against the side of my neck. “How does this help us?” he asks. “How does knowing what happened to Avery in the Fade help her?”

“Because it tells us how she came to Thedas and what, exactly, she is.”

_What am I?_ I want to ask. If the two of us had been in the sepia drenched landscape of dreams, removed from everyone else, I might have asked Solas outright. If it had been just the two of us, sitting at a table drinking liquids that didn’t actually exist or standing side by side overlooking the lake I might have let the question trip off of my tongue but here, with other people, I let it stay locked behind my teeth. I’m not sure why. I trust Max and Varric. I wanted them here with me – I _still_ want them here with me, their warm presences weighing me down and feeding me strength. The idea of them leaving is terrifying.

And yet…

What if they look at me differently? What if they can’t handle whatever it is that I am? What if _I_ can’t handle whatever it is that I am? What if I lose them? What if I lose myself? What if…?

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Max snarls while Varric proclaims with a shrug and a great deal more calm, “She’s Avery. She’s _ours_.”

God bless Varric.

If Solas wasn’t gently rubbing some sort of salve onto my fingertips I’d hug the dwarf. Or squeeze his hand. Something.  I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn a measure of the dwarf’s loyalty but I’m so fucking grateful for it that my eyes sting at the fond possessiveness. And even though he uses my real name – which, if I’m being honest, feels weird – I can hear the shadow of all the other names he has called me in the past several weeks.

_Red. Hips. Smalls. Sugar. Plucky._ And easily a handful of others that hadn’t earned more than a resigned sigh or a smack to the back of his head. They’re not the name my birth mom wrote on my birth certificate but they’re me all the same. Little pieces of me. Glimpses. Reflections. Puzzle pieces that Varric has plucked out of my being and waved over his head while grinning like a scoundrel.

“The destruction of the Conclave was caused by an extraordinary amount of power,” Solas begins, ignoring Varric’s muttered _No, shit_. “At my best guess, what remains of that power now literally rests in the palm of Max’s hand.” Solas looks up past me to where Max must be staring back at him from where he is resting his cheek on the side of my head. “There is enough power there to confuse you, magically speaking, for an entire Circle of mages.”

Max recoils so sharply that I can hear his head smack against the wall behind him.

Varric swears again.

“Quite,” Solas agrees grimly, “and I am certain that we will have to revisit that subject in relation to yourself at another time but at this point I bring it up to emphasize this point: the power that you have is but a mere fraction of what tore apart the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It is simply _what is left_. The destruction was enough to tear the veil between our world and the Fade. And, I suspect, the aftershocks did similar things between the Fade and other worlds. Avery would have had to have been in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time, to fall through as she did. Because she went into the Fade physically she was able to use it as a sort of pathway between her world and ours, traveling through it until she found another tear in the veil and was able to exit into our world.”

I snort. “Of all the times to be possessed of sheer, dumb luck,” I mutter and shake my head. “Winning the Powerball would have been nice but I suppose surviving a spirit realm and getting to live on another world is not a bad use of it.”

“That is the thing, _da’lath’in_ , I do not think it was luck at all.”

I blink.

“… so I’m… _unlucky_ for falling into Thedas?” I mean, I guess that is probably true. Because, once again, I’m not exactly the poster child for interplanetary relations and first contact and a whole lot of other science fiction mumbo jumbo. I’m also not exactly equipped to survive in a world with medieval technology. I lucked out a bit when it comes to cooking on a woodstove and over and open flame but otherwise…fuck, until we left Haven I hadn’t been camping since I was, like, five. And _that_ had been an unmitigated disaster that resulted in all of us throwing our rain drenched gear into the back of the suburban at two in the fucking morning and shivering the whole way home. My Disney princess coloring book had gotten wet. I’d been pissed.

“That is not what I am saying at all. I have no doubt there are worlds out there that would have been infinitely worse than Thedas for you to stumble upon.” And yeah, I don’t really want to think about that. Falling out into a world with demons and a Giant Fucking Hole in the Sky had been terrifying enough, thank you very much. Honestly, with my luck I’m surprised I didn’t get some sort of zombie world or a place with non-oxygen based atmosphere that would have had me flopping about like a beached fish for the minutes it took my body to give up and just die already.  “What I am saying is that your arrival on Thedas is very deliberate.”

I blink.

Right.

“… deliberate?” I skeptically repeat, staring at Solas, who has never really struck me as a religious, everything-that-happens-is-the-will-of-god sort. I mean, it’s not like I actually know the man. Not really. But a couple of Fade dreams and slogging through snow and wilderness for almost a week in close company counts as some sort of fledgling relationship. And prior to this exact second I would have said that Solas would have met any sort of predestined religious theory – or even god, or the Maker himself – with a _fuck off_. Well. A polite one, sneakily disguised as something else. Because, _Solas_.

His lips twitch. “Well,” he amends after a beat during which I feel five thousand different types of confused and lost and kind of like I’m dangling over a void, “ _accidentally_ deliberate.”

I blink.

“…say what, now?”

Solas smiles.

Like a damn cat that’s suddenly found itself presented with both cream and canary. _And_ an opened can of tuna.

It’s… unsettling. Not going to lie. It makes my little lizard brain want to crawl under a goddamn rock and stay there until Ragnarok has blown over a time or three.

“In the Fade you encountered three different demons – or rather, two demons and a spirit. Yes, there is a difference,” he adds, lips twitching again, though I can’t tell if it is in response to Varric’s little shuddery twitch, to something on my face, or to something happening on Max’s that I can’t see or feel – or, hell, even all three. “To oversimply matters to the point that it is practically erroneous: spirits are incorporeal representation of good, or more accurately: _valued_ , emotions and traits. Demons are twisted and represent the darker side of things. The first, at the site of your entry into the Fade was likely some type of despair demon,” he begins, holding up a finger. “Despair, by its very nature, is a slow, creeping thing. You avoided it by simply walking about and refusing to stay within its realm of influence. The second was a desire demon and is likely the source of the odd flash of purple you encountered while looking for your mother. It is also responsible for your odd... dream. The dream was a construct of the desire demon designed to entrap you and hold you while it, for lack of a better term, consumed you.”

I wrinkle my nose. Ew.

“And finally, the wisp that you report being in the construct with you was, I suspect, a young spirit of Compassion.” Solas sighs and he looks almost… tired, or sad, rubbing his hand wearily down the length of his face. “You escaped the despair demon because you were far too determined for it to capture you, but the desire demon succeeded. Even though you retained enough of your mind to realize that the entire construct was _wrong_ , that it could not possibly be _real_ , the fact remains that as you are not a mage and that there was nothing you could have done on your own to free yourself from the demon. Especially given the fact that you were there physically and had no body to anchor any of yourself elsewhere.”

“So if I was trapped, how am I here?” Because that’s the million dollar question, ain’t it? If I couldn’t have gotten free of the desire demon’s mind fuck am I still there? Did it simply change things to something I might find more believable?

Of course, the fact that I find a magical, medieval world with demons and elves and dwarves and who the fuck knows what else more believable than a reality in which my family is happy and gets along is ridiculous. And, if I actually think about it, true. Which is not at all a helpful realization. Christ on a cracker.

“Compassion.”

“I… what?” Jesus, I am so confused.

Solas smiles. “A spirit of Compassion followed you into the construct and, when the Desire demon tried to take you utterly, the spirit took you instead.”

I… I don’t understand.

Except.

_Except._

What had Solas said to me that first day? _They will call you abomination_.

I swallow, nervously.

“Ah,” he murmurs, “I see you begin to understand.”

“That makes one of us,” Max mutters. Varric is suspiciously silent, staring at me with wide, knowing eyes. “What the bloody void does that actually _mean_?”

“It means that Avery is being possessed by the spirit of Compassion and,” he adds, tipping his head to look at me carefully, the quicksilver of his gaze sliding right through my eyes and down to my soul where every sin and thought lies bare and ready for him to read, “by the demon of Desire as well.”

“What?” Max grounds out flatly. “She’s not possessed. I’ve met abominations they’re… she’s nothing like them!”

“No,” Solas agrees with a calmness that I certainly don’t feel. “She is not. But it is a mistake to see an abomination and think that all possessions appear so.”

“Blondie…” Varric’s voice cracks and he looks away, clearing his throat roughly. “ _Anders_ , he didn’t look any different – didn’t act any fucking different than you or me. Not until you pushed him past a certain point. Justice was always there but he didn’t… Andraste’s tits, you’d never have realized it just to see him walking down the street.”

Solas tips his head. “I am not familiar with this Anders but there is a people that inhabits lands to the south who use voluntary, temporary possession as a way to teach their mages. Both spirit and human coinhabit a body for a while and share knowledge before parting, no harm done.”

“So do it,” Max’s voice is breathless and strained, his entire body vibrating against mine. “Part them. Get them out of her… fuck, why aren’t they out of her? She’s been subject to a bloody smite!”

“I can’t.” The elf rocks back on his heels. “You have to understand,” he explains quietly, but firmly, the husky cadence of his voice the lifeline that I’m holding on to because _Jesus Fucking Christ_ I am not equipped to deal with this, "that there are a great many things about this situation that are unique. Avery is not a mage and has no latent magical ability. She is, technically, not capable of being possessed _except_ ,” he has to raise his voice to be heard over Max’s completely valid disbelieving snort, “that she was in the Fade _physically_. Her actual form was there for the spirits to touch. To grab a hold of. In a typical possession the essence of a demon or spirit follows a link from the Fade to the mage or being in question and settles into their body. It is literally a two beings in one body scenario. This is not the case with Avery and this is why a Templar’s Smite will not work on her. _There is no connection to sever_. Compassion and Desire, they are no longer in the Fade. Indeed, I suspect that they no longer exist as entities in their own right.”

I blink.

“But you said…”

“… two beings – or three, in Avery’s case – in one body. Yes. But that is not true for Avery. Whatever happened there in the construct unmade them, just as it unmade her. It unmade _all_ of them and put them back together as one person. This part, you understand, is strictly conjecture. I have never come across anything quite like this before, not in the living, waking world or in all my explorations of the Fade. But Avery is not three beings sharing one body. She is _one_ being in _one_ body. The one being just happens to have been formed out of three different beings to begin with.”

I stare.

Varric stares.

I’m pretty goddamn sure that Max stares.

Because.

Just.

_Holy motherfucking shit_ does not even begin to describe this and I can’t… It’s crazy. This is absolutely bat shit crazy. Actually. No. Batshit is far too sane for this scenario and using it to describe what is currently trying to sink into my head is absolutely an insult to bats everywhere.

Except.

_Except._

Except I don’t think he’s wrong.

Goddamn it.

“You feel it,” Solas whispers, his gaze focused on me once more. “I know you do. You feel when we are angry, when we are happy, when we are sad. You know when we are tired or hungry or ill or hurt. You know when to soothe us, when to feed us, when to get up and yell in our faces. Always. You always know how to help us, how to give us what we want, what we _desire._ I daresay you’ve probably even seen things, haven’t you? With someone who’s emotions are particularly strong?”

After a moment of hesitation I nod and Max sucks in a deep breath behind me. “Who?” he asks and I can’t tell if he’s hoping that my answer is him or not.

I swallow. “Cullen,” I whisper. “Leliana. Varric.” _Solas,_ I add silently but I can’t bring myself to say it. I can’t bring myself to shine a light on the great vast emptiness of suddenly being horribly and utterly alone. Varric shoots me a look that is equal parts speculative and terrified and it hurts, it hurts to see him look at me that way. “Cassandra was interrogating you. She was looking for someone. It wasn’t much. Just a glimpse,” I offer quietly, quickly, hoping that this hasn’t somehow destroyed that precious trust he has given me.

Varric pats my knee reassuringly. “She is very determined, isn’t she?” And I laugh because saying that Cassandra is _determined_ is kind of like calling the ocean _wet_. It’s true but it feels like an epically vast understatement.

It’s also not quite right.

Not for that. For then. For now, even.

“Desperate,” I correct quietly and Varric nods.

“That too, Plucky.” Forgiveness, sweet like spun sugar melts across my tongue. He is unrepentant though. Determined or desperate it doesn’t matter to him and I’m glad of it. Glad that his loyalty cannot be easily swayed. We share a look and when he offers me his flask again I take it, even if it does melt my vocal chords.

Fuck, but that stuff is vile.

And yet here I am. Drinking it. Again.

Well, I never claimed to be a smart one, so there’s that.

“So… what? What are you saying? That she knows what we’re feeling? What we want? That she can see our bloody thoughts?” Max sounds a little hysterical. I don’t exactly blame him. If I didn’t have the warmth of him against my back or the weight of Varric’s hand on my leg, or the steady, sure grip of Solas’ hand around my own I’d probably be a little hysterical too.

And by probably I mean definitely.

And by little I mean way, _way_ more than a lot.

“Yes.”

Oh, bravo Solas. Way to break it too him gently. I glare a little at the elf. He stares back, as unrepentant as Varric.

Asshole.

His lips twitch.

“And…what? _What_ exactly does that…?”

“It means that Compassion and Desire have become part of her and she will inevitably be driven to fulfill their purpose. It has done so already. It is the reason she is even on Thedas to begin with. That day on the mountain you were determined. _Unstoppable_ , even, especially after you succeeded in closing the first rift. Tell me, Maxwell, what was it that you wanted most? In that moment, on that mountain, with the world unraveling around you what did you desire the most?”

Against my back Max has gone horrifyingly still, all of his muscles locked into place and as steady and solid as bars of iron. “Someone… someone to save,” he whispers hoarsely and his voice breaks. “The world was ending and everyone had thought that I’d done it and then they thought that I could stop it. I was just pretty sure it was going to fucking kill me and I wanted… I wanted there to be one bloody person in this fucking world that would make it worth saving.”

It’s a horrible, terrible confession because on one hand I can see, all to clearly the man who wants to remake the world and who will accomplish it by any means necessary – even if that means first burning it to nothing but ash. On the other hand though is a man who is tired, weighed down with grief born exhaustion that pulls at him until, in the darkness of his heart, he simply wishes for something, _anything,_ to make the world a worthwhile place again.

“And here she is,” Solas words are barely more than a faint movement of the air in front of my face but I feel them like heavy stones being dropped one by one into my gut. “You, who by virtue of the mark, is as connected to the Fade as a hundred mages wished for someone to make it worthwhile. She said that the rift captivated her attention, that she couldn’t help but touch it. You needed her and here she is. Just as you desired.”

It is, absolutely, the wrong fucking thing to say.

The loss of Max’s arms around me is disorientating, like someone has suddenly ripped a rug out from under my feet, and I can feel him shifting, preparing to push me forward and…

_No. No. Nonononononononono. No-fucking-no._

The litany of protest is so strong in my head that it’s not until I’ve twisted in his lap and have got my hands wrapped in the cloth of his shirt that I realize that I’m saying it out loud. That I can’t stop saying it. That I can’t think or feel anything else but a violent rejection of his actions lying in a thin veneer over an abyss of mind blowing terror.

“No,” I whisper, locking my knees on either side of his hips when he tries to twist away. “No. No. Whatever the fuck you’re thinking – _no_.”

“Get off of me,” he orders tightly, lips pressed into a thin line, obviously expecting me to obey.

“No,” I repeat. “You’ll have to make me.” And he could. It would be so easy for him. He’s bigger and stronger than I am. It would take about as much effort as breathing to toss me from his lap and free himself. He won’t though. He doesn’t.

Instead he just stares at me, his pale gray eyes wild and panicked. “How can you stand to touch me? How can you even bloody look at me?” he finally breathes out, chest heaving beneath the curl of my fingers. The air between us is charged, almost crackling, and so heavy with sorrow and a flash of bright and shining anger that it’s a fucking miracle that I can breathe at all as I stare back, utterly confused.

“I…what?”

“Did you not just hear Solas? I’m…”

“…the reason that I’m not wandering around the Fade, fading away to nothing because I have zero magic and can’t figure out how to get out? Yes, I heard. Thank you for that, by the way,” and I grip his shirt a little harder, willing him to realize just how genuine my gratitude is. “For fuck’s sake, Max, it’s not like you dragged me screaming from my bed, knocked me over the head, and tucked me into the back of your murder van. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time to get sucked into dreamland and you saved me from being demon chow. I’m not getting why you’re so upset over this. Sure, Thedas is new and a little bit scary but it could have been so much worse. You’ve got air I can breathe, a language I can speak, and you. You’re here.” Which, fuck healthy relationships. If being dependent on assassin and following him around like a baby duck keeps me from assuming the fetal position under a table somewhere and screaming like a frightened little girl then bring on dependency. There are worse things in the world. Worlds.

“Yes. I’m here,” Max sneers bitterly, “and you’re here _because I want you_. Bloody void, Harding was right.”

I blink.

Oh.

_Oh_.

“Oh, hell no,” I mutter and give him a little shake. “No. Nope. Nu-uh. You are not taking advantage of me. You have not turned me into some sort of sex slave.”

Max scoffs and looks away. “Haven’t I, though? You’ve been on Thedas for not even a month and I’ve been fucking you for most of it.”

“Hey. Yeah, no. You don’t get to take responsibility for that. I initiated plenty of sexy times and have put in lots of work towards having a good time. _Because I want to,_ you _dumbass_ ,” I growl.

“Why?”

I blink. “…Why?” I repeat.

“Yes. Why. Why do you want to _fuck me_ , Avery?” He spits the words like they're poison, like they're acid that will eat away at my face and send me screaming from his lap.

I raise an eyebrow and stare at him because _seriously_? That's a stupid question.

I answer it anyway.

“Uh, because you’re hot. Not like Brad Pitt or Chris Hemsworth hot but like the love child of Adam Driver and Tom Hiddleston hot. You could fucking cut glass with those cheekbones. And you’re smart. And sassy as fuck. And despite this whole anti-hero thing you’ve got going on you’re a pretty damn good guy. Also, you’re an animal in bed which, kudos to me. Oh, and the murder strut thing.”

“…murder strut thing?”

I nod. “Yeah. When you’re all confident and smooth and violent. It probably says something horrible about me that I find the sight of you killing someone to be such a turn on but,” I shrug, “what can ya do?”

When Max finally looks back at me his eyes are a little less panicked. “You don’t… you aren’t just having sex with me because I want you?”

I shouldn’t blow a raspberry. This is a serious situation. A ridiculous, serious situation. I should treat it seriously. I should act like a goddamn adult.

I make a loud _ppbbbbttt_ noise. “Please, give me a little credit. The fact that you want to get down and dirty with me is a compliment. Makes a girl feel good about herself, you know? Especially because you're classy about it and not serial killer creepy. But no, I’m not just sleeping with you because you want it. If that were true I’d be banging Vale and at least half of his men.  And Varric here likes to stare at my ass when he’s thinking…”

“…probably not helping, Plucky…”

I roll my eyes. “…the point I’m trying to make here, Max, is that I’m fucking you ten ways to Sunday because _I want to_.”

He stares at me for a long time, like he’s trying to dissect my soul and study the little wispy pieces of it under a microscope. I let him.

“…promise?”

I press my forehead to his and nod, willing him to understand that I would never do that to him nor let him do that to me no matter what else has made itself part of me. “I promise.” There are so many other things I could say here – an entire soap box on consent that I could stand up on and preach from – but I don’t. It’s not what is needed right now, not for either of us. Instead we just sit, forehead to forehead with breaths mingling in a warm, humid wind between us.

After a minute Max offers me a single, jerky nod and shudders, tension leaking out of him like ink from a letter left out in the rain. The weight of his hands re-settling on my hips is enough to make me slump, a puppet with its strings cut, out of sheer relief. The idea of losing Max is inconceivable and, if I could get my mind to wrap itself around the idea, terrifying beyond belief. Is part of that because of these hitchhikers that I’ve apparently picked up? Possibly. I mean, I know less than nothing about spirits and demons and possession and all of that but I know myself. And I know that I have a habit of giving everything to friendships and relationships. Of holding on through hell and high water and fighting tooth and nail for those I care for. Of wanting to take care of them. Of wanting to make sure that they are happy and healthy and loved.

So I know me. And I know Max, at least a bit, and probably better than anyone – at least on some levels– than anyone else in this fucking organization. So sure, our co-dependency might have been jump started by his need and my innate, if amplified, desire to meet those needs but I daresay this thing we’re building on that foundation is all us though.

And, honestly, I’m not sure I give a fuck even if it’s not.

But I’m sure as hell not going to say _that_ out loud.

I  may not be smart but I'm sure as hell not  _that_ stupid.

“If it is any consolation,” Solas offers when we finally part, Max helping me off his lap and tucking me beneath his arm, “my experience with spirits and demons in the Raw Fade leads me to believe that one is most likely to attract those spirits and demons which resonate with the traits represented most strongly within a person. It is unlikely that Avery’s… possession… has changed her overly much but merely made stronger by that which has been taken into her.”

I pat Max’s leg. “See? Nothing to worry about?”

Off to the side Varric lets out a little choked laugh. “Nothing to worry about? Plucky, at least half the world – if not more – is going to want to burn you at the bloody stake if they find out what you are.”

Which, granted, is worrisome but… “Then don’t go telling people?” I offer with a shrug. “I, apparently, have already passed the test of being smote, which supposedly disrupts the normal process of being possessed, right? So… I should be good.”

Good. Right. I’m apparently only what everyone is scared shitless of.

Jesus, I’m taking this remarkably well.

Probably because it hasn’t sunk in yet. Or because  my new bits are remarkably adept at suppressing my anxiety.

Demon Possession: the Cure for Anxiety of All Sorts.

It sounds scary but if I could bottle it and sell it back on earth I’d make a fucking fortune, inevitable questionable morality aside.  Anyone that says otherwise obviously hasn’t ever had the super fun experience of riding out a full blown panic attack underneath a table in the middle of a crowded restaurant because it’s the closest thing you can get to being alone while your heart is trying to explode out of your chest and you struggle to breathe and everything just…

I shake my head.

Yeah. I’ll take the demons, thanks.

_How the actual fuck is this my life_?

I close my eyes and lean back against Max’s arm, suddenly so tired that the inside of my eyelids hurt. I want to curl into Max’s side, to tuck my head down on his chest and let him hold me while I drift off into a lovely, non-sepia colored dream. But I don’t. Because we’re not done talking yet. Because I’ve got two demons – pardon, one demon and one spirit – as backseat drivers on my crazy train and there’s no fucking way to boot them off the Avery Express. Because thanks to them I’m like some sort of super hero empath. Or something.

_Jesus fucking Christ in a goddamn tutu_ … this is my origin story.

I manage to stifle the hysterical little giggle that comes with that thought.

Barely.

Maybe.

“Right,” I mutter firmly, prying my eyes back open and focusing on Solas who stares back, cool as a cucumber. “What else do I need to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking I'll have the Crossroads bit wrapped up in a chapter or two … *side eyes Muse warningly* … and then it's off to pick up Blackwall, visit Val Royeaux, recruit Sera and Vivienne, and meet the Chargers. Not going to lie, there are some scenes in there that I am VERY, _VERY_ excited for. 
> 
> (Seriously. So excited. It's ridiculous.)

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, first off: I have no idea what I'm doing here. I've kind of had this idea and cast of characters nagging me from the back of my head for over a year now and I wanted to try something new with them. A "choose your own adventure" style sort of thing. Though, instead of doing the "If you pick A, go to chapter 2. If you pick B, go to chapter 4" sort of thing I will periodically ask for your vote on certain choices or characters. Some of these things will simply be for fun, others will have an enormous impact on the direction of the story and/or the world state. I'm also completely open to shout outs/requests for various scenarios, pairings etc etc etc
> 
> Basically, my muse is intrigued (or kind of obsessed) with the idea of presenting you with a set of characters, a loose plot (ie: the basic storyline of DA: Inquisition and a few other qualifiers that'll be revealed in the first few chapters)... and letting you tell me what to do with them/it. More or less. 
> 
> As this is a work-in-progress I expect updates to be somewhat irregular, as will the chapter lengths. I'll do a few chapters to give you a bit of a feel for how I'm casting the initial characters and then... off we go.
> 
> And I would like to take a moment to reiterate that I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. I've seriously got a few pages of character notes and a rough plot line that could fit on a napkin and that's it. And for someone who typically has thousands of words of notes and generally abides by a "no posting until the first draft is complete" rule it's slightly terrifying.
> 
> But that's half the fun of it, I suppose ;)


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